


Once Upon A Christmas Eve

by virtualpersonal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Consent Issues, Cozy, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester - Freeform, Desire, Feels, Holiday, Hurt/Comfort, Lust, M/M, Mystery, Sam/Dean - Freeform, Sexy Times, sam and dean are not brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtualpersonal/pseuds/virtualpersonal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds a half frozen, stark naked, mysterious stranger on his door step and plays the good Samaritan, taking him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=nd6eq9)  
> 
> 
> Written with Fetish

Nestled in the snowy mountains was the small town of Hollyville. Built in the style of traditional Danish architecture, many a tourist compared it to a story book city or even to Santa Town. Main Street featured bakeries, coffee shops, art studios and many shops that featured antiques and European goods. Located within a half hour of a busy ski resort, the town came alive in the winter, its old fashioned inns and bed and breakfasts booking up. Many also visited the town to find peace or to take a break from the big city. Here, for a time, they could get lost in a slow way of life that hadn't changed in a hundred years.

*

It was night. Though the forest and trees were dark, the snow gleamed under the moonlight and the silhouette of houses, cabins and structures could be seen for miles. 

Dean trudged through the snow, his legs and body numb to the wet cold now. He didn't know how long he'd been walking, why he had no clothes on or even where he was and how he'd gotten here. All he knew was his name and the _hunger_. It ate at him and weakened him. It was worse than the cold, so much worse, and nothing alleviated it. Days ago, he'd stolen food from some campers and it had done nothing for him.

He wished he could die, that the hunger would go away, that the numbness would take his entire body and allow peace to enter his soul. 

His wishes were not granted. 

Instead, Dean found himself crossing a road, his bare feet scraping against asphalt and salt. It was a main street that lead to the center of a town, but right where he crossed the street, it was still at the edges of the town. Turning his head, he saw that down the ways there were people and colorful lights, even music. Closing his eyes, he recalled what happened the last time he'd run into people. They'd beat him with their sticks and demanded to know why he was naked and who he was. They'd been afraid and his inability to answer quickly had made it worse. He couldn't go that way, he had to avoid people.

Next to him was a gray building with a tall steeple. There was a sign on the double doors in front of the building. Dean shuffled forward, squinting to read the sign next to it in the dark.

_Sanctuary - To all who seek comfort and would find rest._

He supposed that meant him. He took a few more steps and wondered at the prickling sensation under his feet. Ignoring it, he pushed himself on and reached for the door handle. Once his fingers closed around it, a sharp burn drew a soft shout of pain from him. His hand was glowing red like it was on fire, and so were his feet. "Help... help..." he whispered, his throat raw. 

His hand blistered before he was able to let the handle go and stumble away onto the sidewalk. One agonizing step at a time, he crossed the street again and headed up the embankment that lead back into the woods. As soon as he made it, he dropped down on all fours, burying his feet and his hand in the snow, trying to understand why he was being punished so. Why couldn't he remember. Why was his life full of suffering? 

Somewhere he heard a wolf howl. It had him getting up before he was ready. He remembered what it felt like to be bitten. To have your flesh torn from your bones. What he didn't understand was why his skin was flawless, bearing no evidence of the attack. How could this be anything but punishment?

The howls grew louder and had him shuffling one foot in front of another. He had no idea where he was going, but only a vague hope to find shelter and a bit of rest. _Sanctuary._

* * * 

As the days grew closer to Christmas, more people commissioned his paintings which was both a good and bad thing. It was good because there was no doubt that he could use the funds, however it wasn't exactly wonderful because this much work meant more limited time for him to join in the celebratory activities that he enjoyed this time of the year. Usually he was the first one to sign up to go caroling, this year he had no time. Every other year he worked at the homeless shelter in a nearby town, this year he could not. Normally, he played Santa for the children of the orphanage, this year either they would need to find someone else or Santa would be absent. 

Washing off a paint brush Sam sighed heavily as he looked out one of the windows of his cottage situated on the property at the base of the old Catholic church. He turned his attention back to the painting, his eyes moving over the scene depicting a soul once tortured that was now being given rest within the arms of God. It had been purchased by one of the rich families in the nearby town for some ailing family member or another. Sam sighed heavily as he looked at it, uncertain whether or not he believed in such things anymore. Maybe it was all the things he heard from so many medical people on television that had him wondering whether once a person died, that was really the end of it all. What if God was just a dream that man made up out of fear of death? Shaking his head he tried to push the thoughts aside, it wasn't his problem to deal with, his was only to paint a picture not to try and decide whether the person requesting it was holding out a hope for something that might not be real. 

A loud crash at the side of his house next to one of the far windows abruptly drew Sam's attention and had him surging to his feet as he turned, wide eyes scanning that side of the house. He tried to place the sound with any mundane possibility but none came immediately to mind. Tentatively, he crossed the room and pushing the curtains farther apart, looked out the window, but there didn't seem to be anything out there at all. 

Releasing the fabric, he made his way over to the front door of his house. He grabbed his coat off the coat rack and pulled it on along with a ski hat and scarf before grabbing a flashlight. Reaching for the door handle, Sam pulled the door open and stepped outside, shining the light around the front of his heavily decorated cottage, looking around for the source of the loud crashing sound. 

"Hello?" He called out as he made his way around the side of his house. He'd just turned the corner when he gasped in a startled breath, his eyes widening in shock, the flashlight falling from his numb fingers into the snow bank beside him. There were a million and one things that he'd expected to find out here, some of which would have likely have killed him or tried to. He had a fleeting memory of the pittbull that had attacked him and ripped at his throat only for him to walk away from it a few days later. The doctors had all called it a miracle. Sam wasn't exactly sure what to call it, luck maybe. Tonight, it could have been a wolf or another animal. But the last thing he expected was a naked man laying in the snow. Nothing could have prepared him for that. Nothing. 

Dean squinted away from the light, but when it dropped, he looked at the man looking down at him. In disgust? With hate? He didn't know, he was so exhausted he could barely understand the things going on around him. But pain, that he still understood. He raised his hand over his head to protect himself and tried to crawl away on his stomach using one arm. His fingers dug into the icy snow, his skin burned everywhere the snow touched him, but it was a numb pain and much better than pain from a beating. 

Sam stared, watching dumbly as the man started to drag himself away through the freezing snow. It took him just another second to shake himself out of his stupor before, despite his better judgment and against the screaming warning in head, he rushed forward and crouched down next to the man, reaching for him and gently laying one hand on the man's shoulder. He sucked in a shocked breath and jerked his hand back when a jolt shot through his hand and up his arm. The sensation was akin to being zapped after walking on carpeting. Frowning, he tentatively lowered his hand again to the man's bare shoulder, relaxing when there was no strange jolt this time. 

"Hey, it's - it's okay, man," he soothed, "Let me help you," he said softly. 

A prickly sensation ran through Dean, like a million bubbles bursting right beneath his skin. It warmed him a little, but it felt dangerous, like it would burn him the way the concrete and the door handle had at that place marked sanctuary. Reaching out, Dean pulled his body another foot away, slipping out of the man's grasp. Watching his face, he searched for signs of anger. A deep frown or gritted teeth, eyes flaring with anger. He saw none of that, but he knew he was confused and probably shouldn't trust himself. What was the word he was looking for? Something to say, to make the man leave him alone. "S... sorry. Sorry," he said, then pulled his gaze away and got on his hands and knees to crawl faster. Then he remembered his nudity might anger the man and he was now showing more of himself. Panicked, he apologized once more and tried to reach the nearby tree, to use it to shield him from the man's view, and his wrath.

Sam's brow creased in confusion, "Sorry?" He asked, "Sorry for what? For making noise?" He inquired and couldn't help the smile that curled his lips. He shook his head and reached for the man again. "Stop, wait, let me help you. Clothes, at least let me get you some of those," he offered. "I - I don't know if we're the same size, but it's got to be better than going around naked in the snow. You've got to be freezing," he reasoned. 

"You're... you're not angry?" Dean asked. People lied. Whatever the man said, it might not be the truth. And yet he smiled so pretty. How could he notice that when he was wishing that he could just fade away into the snow, and that the hunger and the pain would all be over? He felt them man's hand on his shoulder again and inhaled sharply.

Sam pulled his hand quickly away from the man, lowering his attention to the area, "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?" He lifted his gaze and shook his head even as his brow knitted in complete confusion at the man's question, "No, no I'm not angry. Why would I be angry? Because you fell against my house and scared the crap outta me?" He gave soft chuckle. "Nah, it's nothing. Just let me help you and we'll call it even, alright?" 

Dean gave a nod. He hadn't anticipated the large hand closing around his frozen one. Warily, he reached up with his other hand and grasped the man's shoulder and pulled himself up, snow shaking free of his body. His legs were so numb now, it was harder to walk, to take a step. If the man was serious about the offer of clothes, it might help him in the future. He didn't care much about nudity, except he'd seen its effect on others, and that was something to be feared. Trembling, he took another step, trying not to hope too hard for a change of luck.

Now that the man was standing and they were walking back toward his front door, even if the progress was slow and the man's steps were sluggish, Sam felt a little bit better about all this. He continued to glance over at the man between watching where they were going and after a moment tentatively wrapped an arm around the man's waist to help him stay up and to guide him toward the door easier.   
"Uh, no - nothing strange, I just... you know, you seem to need the help," Sam explained when the man's eyes snapped up, meeting his own. "So, you got a name?" Sam inquired even though he knew it was a stupid question, everyone had a name. He chewed at his bottom lip as his eyes searched the man's, hoping that he wouldn't think he was a complete and utter freak. 

Every part of Dean was numb, every part except where the man was touching him. A thrill went through him. Again, it was strange, edged in danger, like if it intensified, it might rival the hunger pangs he'd been having. He blinked and nodded. "Yes."

"Um, okay," Sam allowed with a strained nervous chuckle as he reached out with one hand once they reached the front door of his home, twisting the knob. Pushing the door open he helped the man inside and turned at the waist, pushing the door closed behind them.   
"I, uh, I'd meant ya know, what _is_ your name, but it's okay," he said as he led Dean back toward his bedroom. "If you don't wanna tell me, you don't have to. Maybe I'll just think of something to call you while you're here then, huh?" He suggested with a lift of his brows. 

As he was lead down the hallway, Dean barely caught a glimpse of the living room but saw the flames in the fireplace and the colorful lights that had drawn him to the window earlier. He turned to the man, frowning slightly. Humor. He hadn't expected that. "Dean. Call me Dean," he answered.

As they walked into the bedroom that was illuminated by the soft glow of the fire in the small fireplace, Sam reached over with one hand and flicked on the overhead lights. He directed the man over to his small bed with the oak wood headboard with its cross carvings along the top and the cream canopy enclosing the area. "Here," Sam muttered as he reached down with one hand and threw back the covers. "Let's get you into bed and get you warm," he murmured. "While you're thawing I'll gather some clothes that you can wear, alright?" 

Images filtered into Dean's mind so suddenly, he rocked back and had to grasp the foot board to keep steady on his feet. His gaze moved back and forth, between the man's face and the bed, but he was seeing something completely different. They were both naked. Hungry. Hands sliding over each others' bodies. Himself lifting the man up, thrusting into him, making him beg for it. It went on and on, until the man was sweaty and tired, so tired, drained, just like Dean felt now. 

"What?" Dean asked, blinking the strange images away. "Clothes, yes. Please," he said, slowly sinking down to sit on the bed. 

Sam nodded, his brow furrowed in concerned confusion as to what was wrong with the poor man. He was a handsome man with the most brilliant green eyes he had ever seen and the most adorable splattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. His hair was a deep, dark blond, nearly brown especially in the areas dampened by the snow. It looked as soft as some of the antique silken fibers that the monks and priests had shown him and his hands itched to touch and find out for himself.

He cleared his throat and reached instead for the pillows behind the man, plumping them up before motioning for Dean to lay back against them. "Make yourself comfortable, Dean," he said with a warm smile, "take whatever you need, what's mine is yours. Are you hungry? I made enough beef stew for an army," he coaxed with a grin wide enough that dimples showed in his cheeks. "And then maybe some coffee or hot cider?" He suggested, "That should warm you up."

Dean cocked his head, wondering why the man was being so kind. Leaning back against the soft pillows, he pulled the sheet and blanket over him. "Food... maybe?" He could try it again, maybe it would satisfy him this time. "Do you... have a name?" he asked, smiling a little.

Sam nodded and started to turn to head for the kitchen only to stop dead in his tracks. He could feel the soft blush stealing over his features as he turned and looked back at Dean sheepishly. "Oh, right, uh, my name's Samuel, uh Sam. Just... Sam," he rambled nervously. 

"Sam," Dean repeated. He would remember that name, he told himself. So many things slipped away from him, but maybe in the warmth of this house, of this man, he'd find a piece of himself before he had to leave. "Thank you." 

"Sure," Sam replied gently with a kind smile. "Just gimme a few minutes while I got get you something to eat."

In the kitchen, Sam pulled out the large pot of stew he'd put away in the fridge and then reached up and grabbed a blue stoneware bowl out of the cabinet. He was in the process of dishing out some of the stew when the food fell from the ladle back into pot as images bombarded his brain, the likes of which he had never seen before. 

Pristine white feathers tipped in bright red blood blew across dirtied asphalt, gathering against piles of snow near a cottage decorated in tiny twinkle lights. Inside bodies writhed on a bed, his bed, his body moving against Dean's, both of them coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The fire in the fire place grew, burning the bricks of the mantel as more blood-coated feathers blew across the yard. The church bell rang in the tower and then Sam heard his own blood curling scream. 

The pot of stew fell off the counter and onto the floor with a loud clatter as Sam gasped in a loud breath. He blinked the vision away as he clung to the counter, his heart pounding in his chest, his knees suddenly weak. Lifting a hand to his head he pulled off his ski hat and tossed it down onto the counter. Sweat beaded his skin now just as it had in the vision and he had to get his coat off, had to rid himself of the heat. Slowly pulling himself upright, he released the counter and unzipped his jacket, shrugging out of it. He anxiously tossed it over the nearby dinner table with a sigh of relief and leaned once more against the counter, pushing a hand back through his mop of hair. 

"It was just some weird..." he allowed his sentence to trail off not knowing what the hell to call what he'd seen. "It wasn't real and that man needs your help, Sam. Grow a backbone," he chastised himself. 

Standing upright he reached for the bowl of stew. While he got it warmed up in the microwave, he poured a cup of coffee for Dean and turned his attention to cleaning up the mess he'd made on the floor. 

*** *** ***

Sam walked into his bedroom ten minutes after the disaster in the kitchen, carrying Dean's and coffee mug filled to the rim on a bed tray held tightly in his hands. "Dinner," he announced timidly, his gaze this time lowered to the food instead of on the man's face.

"Smells good." Dean might be tired and confused, but he still sensed a tension that hadn't been present before. He no longer thought Sam intended violence, but he also didn't want to impose on him or to make him uncomfortable. "I'll eat fast and get dressed. Don't mean to impose or... scare you," he added, searching Sam's face. 

Sam's head snapped up, his wide eyes meeting Dean's. He shook his head adamantly, "You're not imposing," he argued gently. "I - you aren't scaring...I'm not afraid. I just...I had, there was an accident in the kitchen and I just...It's fine, please, stay," he stammered. 

"I'll rest a while," he agreed, seeing Sam was earnest. It felt nice to have found shelter and dodged danger. Taking the spoon, he dipped it into the bowl and brought some to his slightly trembling lips. The stew was warm and thick and swallowing it down felt good. He took another spoonful, hoping the food would dull his hunger. And maybe it did, until he looked up at Sam who was watching him. A sharp, almost delicious pain zig zagged through him. Pulling his gaze away, Dean started to eat faster, putting away spoonful after spoonful of the stew, willing his hunger to subside. 

Sam's lips curved into a tentative smile as he watched Dean eat. He felt like a complete fool. It wasn't as though this poor man had any clue about the strange images that had flickered though his mind, not that he had any idea himself where they could have come from. It was something that he would need to talk with Father Fabian about in the morning, but for now, he needed to do all that he could for this stranger. Wasn't the good Father always telling him that people should treat strangers with love and compassion for they may be entertaining angels unaware? His lips curved into a wide smile and he could feel the warmth of a blush once again stealing over his features as he thought about that, about the fact that this strange naked man was definitely beautiful enough to be an angel.

"Just let me know if you need anything else, anything at all," Sam offered. 

"I can't think of a thing," Dean answered, wondering at the blush creeping up Sam's face. Maybe Sam read his mind or something, because he turned his back and moved across the room, like he was embarrassed. Then Sam bent over and Dean saw that he was putting logs in the fireplace. Maybe he'd seen Dean shiver, but Dean wasn't so sure it had been a shiver of cold that had run through him. Watching Sam, he dropped his spoon into his bowl. He got more satisfaction from watching the man than putting the food in his stomach, which was strange.

When Sam leaned into the fireplace, his jeans stretching over his firm ass and the images started crowding Dean's mind again. Flashes of himself kissing Sam, right there, on the carpet in front of the fire. Pushing him down, licking a path from the hollow of his throat up to his chin, teasing him, dodging his mouth until it drove both of them crazy. Bodies moving over each other. Frantic sounds, pleas from Sam driving him wild, making him hungry.

Jerking his head back, Dean took a couple of heavy breaths and laid his head back. Exhausted, his eyes slid closed. He'd get up in a few minutes. He'd vacate the man's bed, let him sleep in peace. But he'd take the few minutes, enjoy them, and treasure them. He knew what was out there, beyond the doors, and no one could blame him for stealing a bit of this. 

*** *** ***

Sam hadn't wanted to disturb Dean after he'd realized that the man had fallen into an exhausted sleep. He'd gotten the fire going again in his bedroom then collected the tray of barely eaten food and untouched coffee. After cleaning up the kitchen as well as hanging up his coat and hat, he set about getting himself ready to turn in. He picked out a couple outfits for Dean to take with him when he left in the morning and packed one of them away in an old backpack that he'd had lying around. The other outfit he placed on top of the pack for Dean whenever he was ready to put it on. Once he had everything set up as he'd promised, Sam went into his bedroom and closed the door.

Stepping into the adjoining bathroom, he took care of business then returned to the bedroom and began undressing. After pulling off his shirts he reached for the warmth of his pajama shirt and slipped it on, buttoning the front of it from neck to hem. Lowering his hands to the button and zipper of his jeans, he began to unfasten those, toeing off his boots at the same time. Once he had his jeans unfastened he pulled them off and tossed them onto the lone chair sitting across the room before pulling on the matching bottoms to his pajama top. Normally he would have pulled off his socks but since it was near below zero outside and still chilly as hell inside, not to mention he actually had a bed mate tonight, he opted to leave his socks on. Pulling back the covers on the opposite side of the bed from where Dean lay, Sam climbed into the bed and laid down on his side facing away from Dean and tried to get comfortable. 

*

He'd been numb for so long, he'd forgotten what if felt like to be warm. Now Dean felt tendrils of heat curling low inside his belly. He rolled onto his side and found himself pressing against a warm body. His eyes opened, and by the firelight, he saw where he was and that it was Sam he was pressed up against. Sam who smelled so good, so good that he brushed his nose against the side of Sam's neck as he drew in a breath. Sam, from whom those tendrils of heat emanated.

His heart started to pound. His mind gave him conflicting messages... touch him... don't touch him. His hand itched to run over Sam's body and, unable to resist temptation, Dean curled his arm around Sam and touched his chest with his palm. The flannel material felt soft under his hand, but where he felt a sliver of Sam's skin, it felt hot, so hot. It had Dean breathing faster. It had him hungry. As he slid his hand downwards, those images started to slam into him again. He moaned softly, tears of frustration building because he didn't know how to make what he wanted happen. 

Sam sighed in his sleep at the sensation of something brushing softly against the side of his neck and he almost tilted his head, offering more access. He started to sink deeper into sleep again when the press of something against his chest had him muttering in his sleep, his lips smacking sleepily as he lifted a hand and softly patted the hand laying against his chest. His hand slipped away as sleep took him deeper once more though he wiggled back against the source of heat in the otherwise chilly room, snuggling contently up against it. 

The friction against his bare cock sent more heat through Dean. His hunger clawed at him, had him unconsciously rubbing himself against Sam's pajama clad ass. It was good, but it didn't satisfy. "Want me," he whispered against Sam's ear, his hand moving lower. "Want me." He shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't. But the images in his head wouldn't quiet, wouldn't let him rest, and the hunger, the terrible hunger hurt. He curled over Sam, his mouth seeking Sam's. When Sam licked his lips at just the right moment, something roared inside of Dean. "Want me..." he whispered, throwing his leg over Sam's hip, and curling it over Sam's, slipping it between Sam's legs. 

Sam whimpered at the first sound of Dean's voice in his ear. His brow furrowed in confusion, pain and fear as the images flashed in his mind again like some sort of nightmare on fast forward. He and Dean writhing in bed, their naked bodies entwined, sweaty and panting, blood, so much blood.

Another whimper tore from Sam though his hips began to move of their own accord, rocking lustfully. His eyes darted behind closed lids as he watched the blood dipped feathers blow across the dirty street. The ringing of the church bell mingled with his own terrorized scream and this time, an explosion of blood that ended with Dean's wickedly smiling face. 

Sam rolled toward Dean, arching his neck wantonly as a low groan tumbled from between parted lips, his hips cantering upward brushing his cock against Dean's leg. His eyes snapped suddenly open and he scrambled away from Dean so abruptly that Sam tumbled right off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Leaning forward, he braced his forehead against the side of the mattress and struggled to get his breathing under control, feeling as though he had just run a marathon. His heart pounding in his chest feeling as though it were about to beat its way free. As he sat there in the relative darkness of the room, he couldn't begin to understand what happened.

Dean scrambled to the side of the bed and almost pounced on Sam. If the guy hadn't looked dazed or hurt, he might have done that. He could still feel Sam writhing against him, giving him what he needed. His body still raged for more, more of the sensations, more of the heat that burned away some of the numbness. Tamping down on his hunger, he reached out and touched Sam's head, running his hand over his forehead and stroking his hair. "Do you want me out?" he asked, his own heart beating with fear. 

Sam's eyes slipped closed as he felt Dean's hand in his hair and caressing his face tenderly. 

_Oh God, what have I done?_

He moved a hand between his legs and pushed down at the crotch of his pajamas in an attempt to hide his erection from Dean's eyes before lifting his head and shaking it at his house guest's question. "No," he answered softly. "Though I don't blame you if you want to leave," he admitted. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, I've never done that..." he began to explain only to blush brightly yet again and lower his gaze. "It's not like me," he mumbled gently. "If you want to stay," he continued then lifted his head, his eyes meeting Dean's, "I can go sleep on the couch." 

Dean was silent for a long moment. Oddly, he was thinking faster now. He was able to understand exactly what Sam meant, his brain didn't feel as numb as it had before. "Honestly? I'd rather you slept under me," he said huskily. "Now do you want me out?" A muscle throbbed in his jaw as he stared intently at Sam, willing him to get back into bed and give him more of what he'd so willingly started to give him. 

Sam's eyes widened incredulously, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to form words, though they came out as a simple rambling of, "Wha - wha - wha - ?" 

Sam swallowed hard and crawled backward away from the bed, his breaths coming faster again and his heart slamming up against his ribs as he stared in utter stupefaction at the man in his bed. A part of him wanted to weep at his disillusionment - he'd wanted so badly to believe Dean was a perfect and glorious angel, while another part of him simply wanted to toss the jerk back out into the snow bank.

"How can you say that to me?" Sam questioned hoarsely.

"Is it wrong to tell the truth? Wrong to think you are the most beautiful man I've seen? Wrong to admit that for a short time, you made me feel alive and complete? That I went to sleep thinking you're my guardian angel and woke to something much better?" Dean saw the emotions crossing Sam's face and knew, above all else, he didn't want to see hate in those glistening eyes. "Wait. Don't say anything more," he said huskily. "Close your eyes. Count to ten. I'll be gone," he promised, though something tore at his insides at the thought of leaving.

Sitting up on his knees near the fireplace, Sam slowly allowed his eyes to slip closed. "Wait," he murmured softly, eyes still closed. "I - I packed clothes for you," he said and lifted a hand, pointing toward the door to the bedroom. "Just outside the door there is a stack of things you can wear now and a back pack of stuff for later," he explained and slowly lowered his hand. "One....two....three....four....five...." 

Reluctantly, Dean slipped out of bed. He wasted a few long counts just watching Sam, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't scared him away with his plain talk. The short rest, and maybe the food had done him a little good, because he wasn't shuffling his feet as much when he padded out to the hall. He wasted another count, stepping into the living room and drinking in the sight of a tree with lights twinkling on it. He should know what it was, but... so much had slipped away from him. There was a sweet scent, he looked around and saw it was a candle that was almost burned out. And then there was the window, snow covering part of each square pane. It looked beautiful outside. Not as cold as reality.

He heard Sam call nine. Somewhere in the darkest corners of his heart, Dean knew he could refuse to leave, that he could find a way to get what he wanted, what he needed. But fear, fear of seeing anger and hatred in one more person's eyes, especially someone who had been so gentle and kind to him, was not something he could bear.

By the count of ten, he was outside, trudging through the snow. The cold wet snow encased his legs up to his knees and hurt more now that he wasn't so numb to it. The bitterly cold wind whipped around him, stinging his flesh. He was back where he'd started, but it was worse now. So much worse. He had to get away from this place, get away before he changed his mind and broke down that door.


	2. Chapter 2

After he'd counted to ten, Sam slowly opened his eyes and was half-hoping that Dean was still simply laying in his bed even though deep down he knew better. He'd heard the creek of the mattress when the man had risen from his bed and then the padding of feet down the hall. He had also heard the truth in the man's tone and words. Dean hadn't been joking when he'd promised to be gone, and now, save for the cracked pot that had held far more stew than Sam could ever have eaten, a few missing clothes and the blow Sam's pride from having awakened and found himself acting like some Babylonian whore with a hard on, it was as if Dean had never been there.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet and trudged across the small distance to his bed. Throwing back the covers, he crawled in and covered up to his chin. Closing his eyes his brow furrowed with pained annoyance at the crisp snowy clean scent that now clung to the sheets, very earthy and very Dean. Turning over onto his side proved to be an even worse idea since it only put him closer to the scent. Squeezing his eyes closed, Sam struggled to fall asleep and was still praying for sleep two hours later when he finally threw back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed. Warm milk. He would go make a glass of warm milk and he wasn't going to wonder, not once, how the jerk was fairing or where it was that he was sleeping in this freezing cold. It wasn't his problem anymore. He'd tried to be nice to the man only to have him turn out to be some kind of pervert. Pulling to his feet, he walked out of his bedroom, glancing down toward the area where he'd left the backpack and clothes for Dean, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw all of it still sitting there. 

"You stupid..." Sam spat. 

Nope, not his problem, if the pervert wanted to freeze his penis off that was his prerogative and Sam wasn't even going to think about frozen nuts. With a heavy sigh he turned and marched into the kitchen only to only place his hands on the counter top and hang his head instead of getting out the milk.

"Somebody up there owes me big," he grumbled as he turned and stormed out of his kitchen heading for the front door.

He threw on his heavy winter coat over his pajamas and grabbed his hat pulling it down onto his head. He grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around his neck then pulled on snow boots. He grabbed a blanket off the couch to wrap around the ignorant fool when he found him as well as another hat and a pair of boots that would, even if they were too large, keep the guy’s feet from freezing. Grabbing his flashlight, Sam opened the door and headed outside to search for the creep he'd just gotten rid of two and a half hours ago. Why? Well obviously because he was a glutton for punishment, that's why.

* 

The burst of energy he'd felt hadn't taken Dean far. He'd trudged away into the lightly wooded area but his steps had gotten slower and slower as his limbs started to freeze. Eventually, he'd dropped down at the base of a tree, pulled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. A few tears slipped down his cheeks and quickly formed ice crystals. 

He dreamt about everything he didn't have. A roaring fire. A warm bed. A man with dark hair and innocent eyes, smiling at him, his cheeks dimpling. Strong arms wrapping around him, whispering 'yes, yes I want you.' Begging him to kiss, to touch, and to do the things he'd seen in his mind. To fill the aching void in the pit of his stomach. Nothing could take the dream from him. Not the cold wind. Not the pain he felt in every freezing cell of his body. And not the fear reverberating through him at the sound of the howling wolves.

A light flashed over his closed eyes. He put his hand over them and opened his eyes, expecting trouble and knowing he was too weak to outrun anyone. The light moved and now he could see again. It was Sam, holding a flashlight that seemed to be shaking a lot. Dean raised his head but waited for an explanation.

Sam had been searching for nearly an hour and a half when he finally spotted Dean. A shiver made its way down Sam's back at the very thought of sitting there like that in this weather, buck naked. He had no idea how in the world the guy was managing it without curling into a ball and becoming a frozen popsicle. He hurried forward, shaking open the blanket. 

"Dean," Sam greeted as he reached him. "Come on, let's get you home," he muttered as he moved the flashlight away from Dean and spread out the blanket, wrapping it around Dean's shoulders even as he put one arm around Dean's back and across his waist to help him up. Dropping the boots down, he nodded toward them, "Go ahead and step into those, they'll save your feet from freezing any more than they already are."

Dean had allowed himself to be pulled up, but he didn't make a move towards the boots. "Why?" He demanded. "So you can sit in a corner and look at me like you think I'm some sort of serial killer? I'm not your problem." He met Sam's eyes. "I'll keep the blanket. You go home. Dream of candy canes and... and glittering lights." It was what he remembered of Sam's living room. "You don't want anything I have to give anyway." 

At first, Dean's words started to make Sam feel horrible about the way he'd acted earlier, but when he went on and made it sound like he was an annoyance to Dean who he was only trying to help, Sam's eyes widened and he pulled his arm away. He took a step back as he stared at the guy taken slightly aback at his attitude. When he went on to belittle his way of living and his holiday decorations, he narrowed his eyes at the guy. "You know what, you're right, I dunno what I was thinking," he sneered. "I guess I thought that you were a human being, a guy down on his luck and that it was near Christmas and maybe I could help you," he scoffed, "I guess I was wrong about the human part. You're not human, you’re just the world's biggest jerk." 

Shaking his head, Sam began storming back the way he'd come. "Keep the boots, I don't need them, Father will likely get me a new pair for Christmas anyway," he called over his shoulder. 

"Christmas?" Dean knew that word. Memories shifted and slid into place. Music. Colorful lights. Candy canes. "Merry Christmas," he said in a low voice. Somehow, he knew nice things weren't for the likes of him. He sank back down to the ground and tucked the blanket under his feet. Maybe he could dream of the things he'd accused Sam of dreaming about. 

Sam had reached the end of the trail that lead to the embankment and back down to street level, about a few blocks from his house when the vision started again, images flashing inside his mind. 

_Pristine white feathers tipped in bright red blood blew across dirtied asphalt gathering against piles of snow near a cottage decorated in tiny twinkling lights. His and Dean’s bodies writhing in lust, both of them coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The fire in the fireplace growing bigger and brighter, the flames licking at the bricks and all the while more blood coated feathers blew steadily across the yard._

_In the distance, the church bell rang, the sound a backdrop to Sam's own blood curdling tortured scream. An explosion of blood that ended with Dean's wickedly smiling face followed by the sight of Father Fabian driving a stake in the shape of a crucifix into Dean’s chest._

The earth started to spin too quickly for Sam and his eyes rolled up into his head. He stumbled and reached for the street sign in front of him with one hand in an attempt to break his fall as his knees buckled, sending him to the ground. The skin of his palm caught on a screw in the sign which ripped a long gash across his palm as he fell. Blood slowly pooled underneath his hand as he lay there in the slush and snow, his lashes fluttering slightly as the images continued to play in his mind, his body twitching with each fear inducing scene. 

Hearing the loud crashing sound, Dean lifted his face up off the blanket and listened. It was absolutely quiet, almost too quiet. "Sam?" he called out, rising to his feet. "Sam?" He pulled the blanket closer around his body and started to head in the direction of the sound. He kept calling Sam's name, but no one answered.  
If he had the flashlight Sam had been carrying, it would have been easy to track his footsteps in those areas where the trees grew thick and prevented the moonlight from shining though. "Sam!" It was frustrating, to be unable to walk faster, but Dean did his best. When he finally reached the embankment which paralleled the road, he saw Sam laying on his side half covered in snow.

One step at a time, he made it over to Sam's side. "What have you done?" he asked, seeing the bloodied snow and the metal signpost that was twisted like something had slammed into it hard. He bent over and looked at Sam's palm. The bleeding had stopped, most likely his blood had frozen. "Sam. Sam?" he said, shaking his shoulder. The man was completely unresponsive. 

He should leave him here, or sit next to him. They could keep each other company until it was over. But Dean saw those sparkling eyes and that smile in his mind's eye and cursing, he dropped his blanket over Sam. Shoving his arms under him, it took every last bit of energy that Dean had to lift Sam, groaning as he rose and staggered forward. He wasn't sure he could get him all the way to the house, but he knew he simply had to. So he concentrated on taking one step, then the next, then the next... always on the verge of falling and always stubbornly refusing to fall.

*

Dean dropped Sam onto the bed and almost collapsed on top of him. He leaned over Sam and lightly slapped his face a few times. "C'mon man, wake up." There was still no reaction from Sam. Dean pulled the scarf off Sam, opened his jacket and ran his hand over his clothed, finding that Sam's flannel pajamas were soaking wet under the coat and that his pants were practically frozen.

"You'll hate me in the morning," Dean predicted as he started to strip Sam. Once he worked the coat off and dropped it on the ground, he undid the buttons along the front of his pajamas and peeled them off Sam's shoulders. He had to lift Sam again to get them off completely. By the time he let Sam drop back, he was huffing and puffing. "My luck... you couldn't be a midget. No, I get gigantor."

Dean paused. He was feeling slightly better again. And there was a warm, pleasant sensation washing over him. This man was odd, he decided. Beautiful, but odd.

He fumbled with the buttons at Sam's fly, holding his breath and closing his eyes as he envisioned himself dropping down to his knees and pleasuring Sam, making him admit it was what he wanted, making him beg for it. Only the memory of how scared Sam had looked stopped him from following through, though the ache in the pit of his stomach sharpened.

Once he got the pajama pants off, he quickly pulled down Sam's briefs. Even Sam couldn't argue the fact that the best way to get him warmed up would be to share body heat. He only hoped Sam hadn't been hurt too bad. He'd call for help but his every interaction with people had gone bad for him as far as he could recall. He'd also seen the phone in the living room and was sure there was a number he should remember, a number that would bring help but he was drawing a blank.

He got Sam under the covers then checked his palm, finding it had started to bleed a little. In the corner of the room was the shirt Sam had been prepared to give him. Deciding it meant Sam wouldn't be angry if he destroyed it, Dean tore the arm off, then used part of it to wrap around Sam's hand, making a small knot.

After he shut off the light he approached the bed. Thoughts of Sam writhing against him gripped his mind. He got on the bed, crawled over Sam and kissed him on the mouth. No, this wasn't right. He wanted Sam like before, wanted Sam to want him, to need him, to touch him like he was desperate for it. Lifting off Sam, he opened the covers and joined him, rolling onto his side. He re-positioned Sam and spooned behind him.

It was like before, the feeling storming inside him when he'd first awakened next to Sam, only ten times more intense now that neither of them had clothes on. Dean gathered Sam close and nuzzled his neck, "What are you doing to me? Why didn't you let me just slip away? I was so close," he mumbled, "So close." 

He closed his eyes and moved his hands over Sam's chest and side warming him up but enjoying it as well. He threw his leg over Sam again curling his body around Sam's. _Want me._ His eyes slipped closed but his body burned hotly. 

The images of Father Fabian stabbing Dean continued to play and replay over and over again in Sam's head like a record skipping. With each stab of the crucifix dagger into Dean's chest, tears burned at Sam's eyes slowly slipping from the corners to roll down his cheeks. "No," he mumbled sleepily, "No, please, don't...No, no please..." At the warmth against his back, Sam relaxed again and snuggled back against it. "Dean," he sighed softly.

"Mmm?" Dean nuzzled Sam's neck. He couldn't help himself. _Want me. Need me._

Sam's body arched and writhed wantonly against Dean's, a low groan tearing from deep in his throat.   
"Don't leave me," he begged groggily. His hand shifted, sliding against the bedding as he searched out Dean's hand. Finding it, his fingers curled tightly around it, squeezing it within his own.

"Leaving is the last thing on my mind," Dean whispered, biting his lower lip when Sam ground his ass against Dean's hips, rubbing against his cock. He was startled by having his hand held, but he squeezed Sam's hand and tried to analyze the feelings going through him. 

The numbness, the lack of caring, the will to just fade away from the world was slowly draining away from him. In its place was an onslaught of other feelings, emotions. That part of him that hurt and hungered had awakened again, but the pain wasn't overwhelming at the moment. Needs and wants had been stirred up and he wanted to set them free but something held him back. There was something else. A strange sense of being sheltered, protected. Not from the weather, but on a personal level.   
Dean heard Sam muttering some more and raised his head. Watching the tip of Sam's tongue move across his lower lip, Dean gave a soft moan. "Want to kiss you. Want to touch you," he whispered thickly, lowering his head and brushing his mouth across the corner of Sam's. "Dream of me. Want me. Need me." 

Sam sucked in a breath, his back arching wantonly, body straining as he pushed back against Dean's. "I do want... I want..." he murmured then paused, brow furrowing in confusion as a whimper tore from his throat.   
"I don't...I...Dean...hold me..." he muttered in his sleep, his hand clinging to Dean's. "Father no, no don't hurt him! I asked for this, I said yes!" He cried out before his eyes snapped open and he sucked in a fearful breath, blinking in the darkness.

Sam swallowed hard as he struggled to distinguish between what was real and what had only been a dream, a very vivid and seemingly real dream. "Dean?" He whispered tentatively into the darkness. 

"Right here," Dean answered, brushing his mouth along Sam's jaw. "Holding you," he added, tightening his arm around Sam. "I didn't want you to have bad dreams. Why can't you just dream about me, about us, right here, right now?" he asked, echoing the questions tumbling around in his mind. Somehow he knew Sam _should_ be dreaming of him, wanting him, tugging on him, pleading with him. Instead, he was asking for comfort. 

Sam swallowed hard and closed his eyes though otherwise he didn't move. "I did dream of you," he confessed softly blinking his eyes open as tears stung the corners. "You died," he whispered.

Watching the tears slip down the side of Sam's face, Dean was perplexed. He untangled his hand from Sam's and used his thumb to catch his tears, rubbing his thumb against his index finger confirming what he already knew. "Would it be that bad? You don't even know me," he said, lifting up onto his elbow to look down at Sam.   
Sam turned toward Dean, his brows knitting angrily at the man's words. Didn't he understand that it was a nightmare, that maybe he just didn't like to witness the death of anyone? "Dreams have nothing to do with reality," Sam scoffed. "You weren't a jerk in the dream," he huffed and rolled back onto his side. "Just leave me alone," he mumbled dejectedly. 

"Are you throwing me out again?" Dean asked. "Is it because of what I want from you, or because of what you want from me?" He rubbed his chin across Sam's shoulder, then brushed the soft skin with his mouth. 

Sam sighed, "I don't want..." he began only to pause. No that wasn't exactly true, he did want, _something_ from the man, but what that was exactly he wasn't at all sure. "I'm not throwing you out," he replied instead. "Just lay still and go to sleep." 

"Alright." Dean held completely still for a time. He could hear Sam's shallow breaths. He could feel him tensing, but also moving against him a little now and again. His scent was tantalizing. It teased Dean, made him want, made him want the way he needed Sam to want him. He moved his hand a little, cupping Sam's throat. He felt Sam's throat convulse as he swallowed and started to imagine Sam begging him, pleading with him, tugging on him, demanding he put out the fires in his body. That was how this was supposed to go. Why did Sam resist? As the scenarios tortured Dean, he moved the pad of his thumb up and down over the sensitive skin of his throat in a rhythm as old as time, pressing against Sam's ass to the same rhythm, but doing it so lightly Sam might not really realize or might question whether it was happening.

Sam sighed in his sleep and wound up turning over to face Dean, his arm wrapping around the man, pulling him in and running his hand along the bare flesh of his back in slow, soothing up and down motions. He burrowed his face in Dean's neck and breathed in his scent, that earthy mix of snow and grass and musk that had Sam moaning softly and arching against Dean's body. 

Heat washed over Dean. That, and tendrils of something else. Something so satisfying, it had him moaning and trembling, gathering Sam closer. "If it feels this good, it can't be wrong." Sliding his hand down Sam's back, to his ass, Dean molded him close as he thrust his hips, rubbing his cock against Sam's. "That's it, that's it," he whispered, moving against him, feeling a rush as Sam's dick thickened and hardened with each slide of his body. 

Sam gasped and moaned, shuddering and arching up against Dean. His hand slipped from Dean's back to his chest, moving over him, his thumb catching against Dean's nipple. His breaths panted out softly, warm breaths fanning against Dean's neck as Sam's hips cantered wantonly forward, thrusting his hardening cock against Dean's. "More," he breathed softly.

Even as Sam's hand slid lower down his chest Dean could still feel the hot imprint of his thumb against his nipple. He threw his head back, the rest of his body jerking against Sam's. The soft pants, the small movements, the way Sam was undulating against him, searching, seeking what he could give, ratcheted up Dean's desire. Sam's vocal demand for more clinched it.

"Yes," Dean answered, closing his mouth over Sam's and sweeping his tongue inside, sliding it around and probing every corner of his velvety hot mouth. 

Sam's body jerked at the invasion of Dean's tongue. His eyes snapped open then closed, a soft strangled sound of uncertainty sounding deep in his throat though he didn't fight the kiss.

Pulling his head up, Dean looked down at Sam's parted lips, then crushed his mouth over Sam's again, this time kissing him more aggressively, forcing him to engage his tongue. In the back of his mind, he could tell... he understood Sam was not experienced, and perverse as it was, it made Dean want him more.

When Dean broke the kiss again, Sam stared up at Dean, his breaths panting softly from between spit dampened, kiss swollen lips. He tried to think of something to say, some apology that fit the situation though he didn't want to apologize, he wanted another kiss. He wanted to feel Dean in his arms which was simply stupid because he barely knew the man. What the hell was wrong with him? Before he could ponder that question, Dean's lips descended, crushing against his own in yet another mind numbing kiss that had him moaning low and arching up against the man's firmly muscled body.

As he kissed Sam, Dean pushed him, rolling him over onto his back and straddling his body. Rising only slightly he started to thrust against Sam, sliding his cock over Sam's three or four thrusts and then he'd stop. He'd wait, wait for Sam to move against him, wait for him to give a sign of how desperate he was for Dean. Why he needed this, Dean didn't know. But each plea, spoken or by gesture, had Dean wanting to elicit more pleas, more desperation. He wanted, needed for Sam to be crazy with desire, so he touched him in all the ways he knew to create cravings, needs that this untouched man might never have felt before. 

Sam tore his lips from Dean's with a startled gasp, staring with trepidation into Dean's brilliant jade eyes. His parted lips started to form a word only to stop as Dean thrust against him, stealing his words. Sam squeezed his eyes closed, his neck arching as he groaned. His body moved, hips thrusting back against Dean's as though of its own accord, hips cantering upward, body straining against Dean's as he writhed beneath the man. 

With each reprieve, Sam's eyes opened to mere passion glazed slits, gazing hungrily up at Dean before he either arched his back with a groan or rasped only one word, "More..." 

Sam's need slammed into Dean. This was what he wanted, what he needed. Raising up, he ran his hand between their bodies, sliding it down over Sam's chiseled abs and without warning, he cupped Sam's hard cock, squeezing it. "More of this? Say 'please,'" he demanded softly, kissing Sam, squeezing him a few more times, then letting his hand go lax over his cock. "Say 'please Dean, give it to me. Please,'" he insisted, hinting at the delights he could give Sam, but withholding them the moment Sam reacted by raising his hips or writhing. Dean didn't know why he needed to hear the words, why it had to be this way. Only that it was beautiful when Sam asked, when he pleaded and that each plea sent intense sensations rushing through his veins. 

Sam gasped in a startled and very audible breath. His head lifted off the pillows before falling back once more as he stared up at Dean. His mouth was slightly lax as he panted harsh uneven breaths. He whimpered softly when Dean kissed him and then told him again to say 'please', a demand that had a blush stealing over his features. Though he may have managed to save a small amount of his pride by not begging for what his body craved, it seemed his body had a mind of its own because here he was, raising his hips wantonly against Dean, thrusting and writhing needily. "Oh God..." Sam groaned, eyes squeezing closed, head rolling against the pillow.

Dean catapulted up, sitting, straddling Sam's hips and ripping the blankets off his body. His gaze roved over every inch of Sam, delicious tendrils of heat spreading through him as he sensed Sam's need and how hard Sam was fighting not to say what he was feeling, not to beg him for what he needed. Putting his hands on Sam's abs, he lifted and dropped down over his rock hard arousal, sliding and rocking, giving just the right pressure to keep Sam wanting. He slid his hand lower, thumbing Sam's now red and swollen tip as he continued to rocking. The sight of Sam's nostrils flaring, his expression, so damned needy, had Dean so wound up that his world narrowed, focused on Sam. 

Sam's eyes shot open wide. His breaths hitched, fluctuating between heavily hiccupped breaths and hissed exhales. His gaze lowered, watching as Dean touched his body in ways no one else ever had, in ways that he'd been taught were evil and wrong. He squirmed and writhed on the bed, hips bucking and gyrating, undulating wantonly as groans and grunted mewls tumbled from his slightly parted lips. His eyes squeezed tightly closed and his head thrashed as he whimpered needily, a fine sheen of sweat coating his body when Dean teased at his throbbing and pulsing cock. He could feel precome leaking from the tip and slicking the side. His nostrils flared as he reached for Dean, eyes opening to passion hazed slits, a look of pained ecstasy on his face. The fingers of one hand dug into Dean's shoulder as he clung to him desperately.

Abruptly, Dean stopped moving, stopped touching Sam. His gaze locked with Sam's. "I want to kiss you. I want to give you everything you want. Make you feel good. Make the fire burn itself out, but you have to ask." He thrust lightly and ground against Sam, giving him a sample. "You have to say the words. Say please, beg me, ask me," he demanded, feeling as feverish and as needy as the man under him. 

Sam's free hand lifted to the side of Dean's face, cupping it tenderly. His thumb brushed along the smattering of freckles against his high cheekbone as his eyes lustfully roamed over Dean's features. His hand shifted slightly against Dean's cheek and Sam's gaze lowered to Dean's lips as the pad of his thumb slowly brushed across Dean's plump bottom lip. His gaze lifted to Dean's and his tongue darted out, licking across his lips briefly, his breaths panting softly. "At first I thought that you were an angel, perfect and pure, newly fallen from heaven and that was why you were naked," Sam rasped huskily. His throat convulsed as he swallowed hard and shook his head. "But now I know that you are no angel come to me from heaven but a creature straight from the bowels of hell sent to tempt and torment me and sadly I am too weak to resist you," he rasped. "And so my answer is yes," Sam rasped, "please," he begged softly, "I want you..."

Sam's lips quirked into a slightly smug albeit weary smile as he tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder, "Wait," he commanded, his gaze boring into Dean's. "Just so you know, I know your real name, _Asmodeus_ ," he whispered.

Dean's head reared back as he got lost in the mental images assaulting his mind.  
 _"Fuck me, please Dean, fuck me."_

_"Ask me. Beg me." Gripping the man's wrists and pinning them against the wall, Dean thrust his hips and pulsed, waiting for what he needed."_

_"Please... please."_

_Dean thrust again._

_"Please fuck me."_

_"Good, that's good..." He started to kiss the man's bare shoulder when the door bust open and he was ripped away from his lover._

_Someone chanted. Someone threw water on him. It burned. Dean screamed and pulled away as steam rose from his skin._

_"Asmodeus, demon of lust, get thee to hell..."  
Dean's eyes narrowed. "I am not Asmodeus."_

_While the hunters drew lines on the floor around him and continued to chant, Dean put his arm out and looked at his lover. "Come to me." When the man came, Dean wrapped his arms around him._

_"It's not Asmodeus. It's something else. It's ... It's gone!"_

Feeling Sam move under him, Dean came back to his senses. "No. I'm _Dean_." He searched his mostly blank mind for a last name. "Just Dean." Staring into Sam's unfocused eyes, he added. "So let's get on with the... tempting and the tormenting and the satisfying," he added with a sharp thrust of his hips against Sam's.

Sam sucked in an audible gasp of air as Dean thrust against him, his hand falling from Dean's cheek to his shoulder to grip him tightly, the fingers of both of his hands biting harshly into Dean's shoulders as he clung fiercely to the man.

Dean might not be the demon Asmodeus, but he acted like a man possessed. He brought his mouth down over Sam's, pushed his tongue into its wet heat and kissing him hard and dirty, showing him with his tongue things this innocent man couldn't possibly have ever conceived. When they were out of breath, he kissed his way down Sam's body, moving and undulating his own so that he was always rubbing a part of his own body over Sam's cock, keeping him hard and needy. By the time he sucked on Sam's nipple, he had wrung a few more pleas from Sam, each more satisfying than the last.

Sam grunted as Dean's mouth slanted aggressively over his own. Sure he'd seen this kind of kissing on cable on the few shows he snuck watching that the church did not approve of, but he personally had never been kissed like this. In fact, Sam could not remember having ever been kissed at all before. He had no recollection of even a mother who would kiss his brow or a father who would press a kiss to his cheek for a job well done. All thought flew out the window as the movements of Dean's tongue had other parts of Sam's body responding and throbbing as if in answer to the slow slide of his tongue and mouth. Moans and softly grunted groans tumbled from Sam's lips and his back arched, one arm slipping around the man's neck, pulling him in even closer.

_More..._

When Dean slipped out of his needy grasp, Sam whimpered and his eyes blinked open to mere passion hazed slits, watching the man as he grappled for him, wanting the hard press of his body back against his own, the delicious wet warmth of his tongue once more in his mouth. Sam gasped audibly and his back arched severely as his eyes fluttering rapturously closed when Dean's mouth closed over one of his nipples. A low guttural groan tore from deep in his throat and his cock pulsed hard and heavy between his legs. Pulling an arm from around Dean, he started to reach down between them, to touch himself, to ease the throbbing ache. His hand stopped in mid motion, returning to Dean's shoulder, fingertips digging roughly into flesh, knowing he was not allowed to touch himself there in such a way. A whimper tore from his throat as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth and pressed his head back against the pillow, eyes squeezing tightly closed. 

Dean scraped his teeth along Sam's stomach, licking and soothing the sensitized flesh, touching him with his hands and always keeping him guessing. By the time he'd crawled down to where his hands straddled Sam's hips, he was sure Sam had no idea what to expect. Sticking his tongue out, Dean licked a long line up Sam's abs, to his navel, met Sam's eyes, then shoving both hands under his ass, lifted him up off the mattress and sucked on his cock, all of it, engulfing it in the wet heat of his mouth. 

After a few moments, Sam blinked his eyes open, his body feeling as though it was a mass of live nerve endings and that every touch to his skin went straight to his aching dick. A soft whine tore from his throat as Dean's hands slid across his skin and he hissed in a breath, eyes closing as his head tilted back wantonly. "Please," he whispered huskily. His body jerked and his muscles rippled and tensed at the warm wet tickle of Dean's tongue across his abs. His eyes snapped open and he lowered his gaze to Dean, watching as he finished licking a line up his stomach. His eyes met Dean's and for an instant in the dim light of his room he could swear he saw Dean's lustful demon's eyes flash red, though it had to be a trick of the light from the fire, or from the holiday decorations flickering from outside the window. Had to. Sam was so fixated on reassuring himself that he wasn't about to give his virginity to a true living and breathing demon that he totally missed it when Dean slid his hands up under his ass and lifted him up from the mattress. It wasn't until those glittering emerald eyes tore themselves away from his view that he realized something was amiss though the thought got not no further than that before he was crying out his pleasure, his head rolling against the pillow as Dean took his cock deep into his mouth.

Sam's muscles tightened and his body strained, the nearly unbearable pleasure sending heat due south, pooling in his gut as his balls drew up painfully tight to his body. He gulped in a couple anxious breaths and struggled to get the words out to warn Dean only he had no air in his lungs, his face flushed a deep crimson with the strain.   
"Aauggrahh!" Was the only warning Dean received before Sam was coming hard into his mouth.

Intending to make this last for hours, Dean was surprised by how quickly Sam reached the point of no return. Moving his mouth very gently up and down his cock, Dean milked Sam dry, swallowing down every last drop of his come. Only when Sam's hips stopped moving, did he release Sam's cock from his mouth. Crawling back up Sam's feverishly hot and sweat covered body, he looked down at his flushed face and heavy lidded eyes. "Guess we managed to warm you up," he teased, dipping his head down and licking across Sam's lips, kissing him. "Close your eyes. Rest for a few minutes. You're going to want me again soon," Dean whispered, knowing this as a fact, though he couldn't say why.

Sated and exhausted, Sam lay panting his breaths, his heart beating out a heavy rhythm in his chest that he hadn't felt in centuries. His brow creased, no that can't be right. Delusional, that was what he was. This man or whatever he was or claimed to be had made him delusional. His gaze lowered from the ceiling, now roaming curiously over Dean's features. For all the things that he had gotten wrong about this man, the fact remained that he was beautiful, there was no doubt of that. His brows slowly knitted incredulously at the last of the man's words drawing a husky chuckle from between his lips. "You may be used to 'bouts of rigorous sex from your other conquests, Asmodeus, but I fear you've done me in for the night," he rasped wearily.

"I may not know much, but I do know I'm not Asmodeous." Dean couldn't deny having had other conquests, he knew there had been many, even if the only one who came to mind was that one he'd flashed on when Sam called him Asmodeus the first time. He also knew beyond a doubt that Sam would want more, but he couldn't say how or why he knew this. Only that he couldn't wait for it to happen. He was still hard, but strangely, he also felt sated and much, much, better than he'd felt in a long time. His powers of reasoning, of thinking straight, seemed to have returned. The hopelessness and numbness seemed to be draining away too. "And I know that you saved my life," he added, tracing the outline of Sam's lips as he spoke. "Anything you want. Anything you need from me, it's yours," he said, though he was painfully aware he had no worldly belongings to offer. 

Sam's lips curled into a smile as his eyes slipped wearily closed, "I'll keep that in mind," he murmured groggily as sleep tugged at him, his hands slipping slowly, limply down the man's sides. "Perhaps you can hang me back on my star," he muttered so sluggishly the words were almost incoherent. 

"I thought you were a star, out there in the dark cold." Dean smiled again, thinking Sam made about as much sense as he himself had made when angry people had come after him. Maybe he'd been as weary as Sam and that's why his words had come out jumbled. Kissing him again, Dean scooted down a little and lay his head on Sam's shoulder. He'd meant it when he'd said he wanted the man under him all night long.   
A quarter of an hour hadn't passed and Dean was visualizing the two of them frantically moving against each other when he heard Sam take a sharp breath and close his arms around Dean. He felt the guy shift against him, felt Sam's cock start to harden against Dean's stomach, the sensation sending heat pooling to Dean's own cock. He didn't say anything. He pressed his ear to Sam's chest and listened as his heartbeats started to quicken.

The warm blackness Sam had been floating in soon turned red and burning hot. His body began to move like the flames that he saw behind his eyelids, undulating with want for the thing, the beautiful being that stood naked before him, that arched up against him and ground his body against Sam's.

No, it wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to be.... _Keep from thee the **evil one** , from the flattery of the tongue of the strange **one**...  
Give not thy strength to the **strange one** nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings.  
Keep thyself pure from the **evil one** for he cometh in the dead of night seeking thy aid for his own harvest._

"No, no..." Sam mumbled sleepily, even as his body moved, his hips cantering upward, grinding against Dean's wantonly and as his arms tightened around Dean.   
_More..._

"Whatever you want, whatever you need," Dean answered Sam's physical demands and ignored his verbal ones. Using his knee, he parted Sam's legs, shifted a little so his hard cock was pressing directly against Sam's and he started to thrust, a little harder, a little faster every time, building the heat between them and slowing down, taking away the pressure Sam so badly needed, feeling him jerk under him in an effort to regain it. "Beg me... plead," Dean whispered, needing it, this. "Say the words... then you can have me. Beg me."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was dressed in a light gray tee shirt and dark gray sweat pants borrowed from Sam. He sat at the small dining table waiting for the breakfast he didn't need or want, but had been told he had to have. His eyes roved over the living room, the tree that twinkled with lights and was covered in shiny Christmas ornaments and candy canes. A fire burned in the fireplace and he could actually feel its warmth, and it felt good. "I almost feel human again, thank you Sam," he said, when the man came out of the kitchen carrying two plates. 

Sam smiled and a warm blush tinted his cheeks and made its way down his neck as he placed Dean's plate in front of him and his own across the table then slid into his seat, all while keeping his head bowed and his gaze lowered. "You're welcome," he muttered softly, stealing a glance up at Dean as he reached for his fork, and then quickly lowering it as he dug hungrily into his food. "Father Fabian will be by this morning. I - I need to air out the house before he - before... I just he's used to my keeping it very fresh and..." 

"You're afraid your father will know what you've..." Dean smiled. "Just open the bedroom window, or don't take him in there." He was a little proud of the musky scent of sex that clung to the room, proof of how many times they'd turned to each other last night. "You expended a lot of energy," he added, watching Sam wolf down his meal. 

Sam paused in shoveling in another bite, his blush deepening if that were even possible. He swallowed what he'd had in his mouth without even bothering to chew it, then gulped some juice down. Lowering the now empty glass he eyed Dean, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. "What are you?" He asked softly. When Dean started to open his mouth Sam shook his head, "You are no human, Dean. With the way you make me feel... after what I did, saving you... I deserve to know what it is I am allowing to touch me." 

Dean wanted to look away from that earnest gaze, but couldn't. He pressed his lips together, trying to think, to access memories that just weren't there. Eventually, he shrugged, "I'm just a guy, Sam. I'm just a guy you have the hots for. Feeling's mutual, but not a mystery, not 'strange.' Just because you don't like feeling the way you do, or are ashamed of it," Dean guessed, "Doesn't mean you can blame it, this on me. Your dad wouldn't approve? So what? Don't tell him. Just think of it as a beautiful dream. I know I plan to," Dean said, knowing he'd be expected to hit the road soon.

Sam's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched in anger. The sound of thunder rolled through the sky outside, through there didn't appear to be a single dark cloud. "I do not know my father nor my mother," he growled low, "Father Fabian is one of the priests from the church up on the hill perhaps you saw it last night when you were running naked through the streets. As for the rest of it..." he scoffed and shook his head. The words to explain it sounded crazy even to his own ears so he kept that part to himself and instead stood to his feet, his empty plate in his hands. "Eat your breakfast, Dean," he grumbled before turning and walking away back toward the kitchen. 

Stirring his fork around, shoving the scrambled eggs from one side to the other, Dean put a little in his mouth. Swallowing without chewing, he got up and walked to the kitchen with his plate. He could see Sam tense at his presence, his back going ramrod. Approaching, Dean stood a little behind Sam, who was washing dishes, and slid his plate onto the counter next to him. "I like it much better when you're smiling at me. It's strange but when you do, it feels like you light up the whole world." There was silence and he saw Sam didn't stop washing, didn't even turn.

"You saved me. Brought me in. Gave me... sanctuary. Fed me. Clothed me. For that, I'm grateful. I don't want to be the reason you're mad or scared. I seem to get that reaction from plenty of people, even animals," he said. "Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. I'll be out of your hair."

A loud banging on the front door gave Dean a start. 

Sam threw the rag into the water and turned on Dean, "You can't get away with things by giving me that answer every time you don't like the conversation. Sometimes I'm going to not have anything to say to you, sometimes I am going to be scared and sometimes I am going to be downright pissed but you are going to have to deal with it," he spat before stepping around Dean and heading toward the door. 

He paused in front of the door and blew out a breath before reaching for the handle and turning the knob, a wide smile curling his lips at the sight of the elderly priest. "Father," he greeted happily. 

"Good morning Samuel." Father Fabian pushed the hood of his thick jacket off his head. "You sounded disturbed so I came early."

Sam glanced back over his shoulder at the seemingly empty house before returning his attention to the priest and smiling. "I just...I was the victim of a nightmare not once but several times last night and once, I was awake when it happened," he explained. "I wanted to tell you about it," he blushed a deep shade of crimson, "about the parts I remember," he amended.

"Victim? It's a rather strong word. How about you tell me about it over a cup of coffee," Father Fabian said, patting Sam on the shoulder. "Getting it off your chest in the light of day will make things better," he said.

Sam started to chew at his bottom lip only to grimace in pain forgetting how swollen and sore it already was from the night before. "Uh, sure, have a seat... I'll be right out," he muttered and turned, heading back into the kitchen. His eyes scanned the house for any trace of Dean, wondering if the man had actually stayed or had he run again the moment things hadn't gone the way he had wanted or circled around sex. 

Stepping into the kitchen he walked over to the coffee pot and reached above it, opening the cabinet and taking down two mugs. Pouring a cup of coffee for himself and one for Father Fabian, he carried the mugs and some cream and sugar out of the kitchen. 

Father Fabian nodded toward the dining room table, where two chairs were pulled out, and the other two were in against the edge of the table. "You had a guest?" he asked, an eyebrow lifted. 

Sam's eyes widened as they darted between the priest and the table and back. What was he going to say? He couldn't tell Father about Dean, Dean was the man in his dream, not that he was going to tell _those_ parts. But he still could not tell about... why, there'd be too many questions. And what if he was asked where the man had slept and even though sleeping next to another person was not a sin, he and Dean had not merely slept.... "Uh, I well, yes, uh, breakfast," he stammered with a smile. "Have a seat," he encouraged with a nod toward the table. Stepping closer he placed Father Fabian's cup in front of him as well as the spoon and sugar bowl then walked around the table and pulled out the chair opposite the priest. He cleared his throat nervously, "So..." 

"So..." Father Fabian said, putting a little sugar in his cup and looking up at Sam. "Don't be nervous, you know I've heard it all. There's nothing that can surprise me or ... well, you know the drill. Just tell it to me like it's a story you read."

Sam licked his lips and nodded, "Okay, uh, there were these feathers... white feathers, so many of them and they were all dipped in blood, blowing across the street here outside but it didn't look like now, it was dirty... like something had happened maybe? I dunno, all I know was that the next thing I knew there was...." _Was me writhing on my bed with some naked man or whatever he is._

"Uh, the church bell rang and I screamed and then I... I dunno, exploded? So much blood that I think, yeah, I just exploded..." Sam said and chewed at his lip, thankful for the small amount of pain while he watched the emotions flicker across the priest's face wondering if the man knew of the things that he was holding back. Like the fact that next he'd seen Father Fabien stabbing Dean with a crucifix.

"That's... that's quite a nightmare," Father Fabian said, frowning slightly. "Perhaps it has to do with your past trauma." He took a deep breath. "Years ago, when you came to us with your memory impaired, when you were injured and couldn't remember, the doctor said your memories would come back. That it could be hours or days or months... years. Maybe it's starting. I don't think you have anything to fear," he said.

Sam stared incredulously at Father Fabian, "What do you mean I have nothing to fear? I _died_! What does it all mean? What are you hiding from me? How can you say this is from my old memories? How - how can that be an old memory?" Sam inquired anxiously. _You killed a man! I was murdered! And the sex... I..._ His thoughts stopped screaming about that as he realized that part of his dream was already coming true. Whatever this was, it was obviously not just a dream but a warning of future events. Sam pulled from his chair, "I - I forgot that I need to take a painting down to Mr. Swanson," he lied, the first one he had ever told, but he couldn't just sit here now and pretend to be alright with all this. 

"Sam, it was a dream. Sam," Father Fabian got up and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You died... in your dream. Just a dream." He was silent a moment. "I do know a little more about your past, but it might hamper your recovery if I were to tell you. What I can tell you is that a dream will not and cannot hurt you."

Sam gazed worriedly into the old priests face, his eyes searching the Father's desperately, "Parts of it are already coming true," he whispered hoarsely. 

"What parts? Feathers?" Father Fabian asked, his brows knitting together. "The street is as clean as it's ever been. I see no blood and you're standing here in front of me. Is there anything you held back? Samuel, tell me."

Sam huffed softly and shook his head, "No, it's nothing, never mind. I need to go," he mumbled and turned walking toward the door. He reached for his jacket and looked back at Father Fabian. "Thank you for coming, Father, fell free to take the mug with you and return it whenever you get the chance. I'm sorry to have bothered you," he murmured. 

Leaving the mug, Father Fabian zipped his own jacket back up and pulled his hood on. "Alright. I'm a phone call or short walk away," he said, walking through the door and stopping, turning around. "I forgot. Sister Mary wanted me to ask if you're going to be at the play put on by the orphanage this year."

Sam nodded, "Of course I will," he agreed softly and reached out, taking the man's hand in both of his. "Again, my apologies, Father," he murmured. "I will see you this weekend for mass," he promised with a nod and a warm smile. 

Once Dean heard the front door close, he came out of the bedroom, which he'd aired out for his paranoid host. "I didn't know you had unpleasant dreams. It actually seemed like the opposite," he said forthrightly. 

Sam whirled around as soon as he'd locked the door behind the priest, his gaze falling on Dean. "You stayed," he remarked. "And you eavesdropped on my conversation," he added pointedly without answering Dean's question. 

"I hid because it was clear you didn't want him to know," Dean countered. "And I listened because I had no idea what you were going to say about me. Trust issues, so sue me." He took a couple more steps and flattened his hands on the door, on either side of Sam's shoulders. "Or do something more pleasant," he suggested, his voice low and smoky as his gaze dropped to Sam's lips. 

Sam's breaths quickened as his own gaze lowered to Dean's full succulent lips though his back pressed hard up against the door. His tongue darted out, the tip running along the line of his own lips as his eyes lifted to the man's, gazing at him lustfully. "I can't..." he whispered hoarsely. 

"Why? You want to, I know you do. What's stopping you?" Dean asked, brushing his body against Sam's. _Sanctuary. Church. Father._ Some puzzle pieces shifted into place. "Is it a sin? Is that why?"

"Yes," Sam confirmed. "That and..." he swallowed hard. "There was more to the dream than I told the Father, I left out the parts about you..." he muttered softly. 

"Killing someone, that's a sin. Hurting someone, that too. But how can something as beautiful as what we were doing be a sin? They've got it wrong," Dean said, brushing against Sam again. "I know you left some parts out. You and me, kissing, touching, making love. You're ashamed. Get over it. Choose happiness."

Sam's eyes narrowed angrily and he shoved at Dean, pushing him away. "I also left out that I saw you just before I died! I saw you and me in bed and when I died you were happy about it," he snapped. "You get over it. No, you know what, get over yourself. You might be beautiful but you can really be a jerk!"

"Happy? Why would I be happy when you saved me, took me in not once but twice?" Dean demanded, turning around as Sam backed into the living room. "If your death would make me happy, I would have left you out there, in the snow," he pointed out, searching Sam's face. He was perplexed. He was sure Sam should be reaching for him, pleading with him, wanting to be close. 

Dean licked his lips and followed Sam to the living room, raising his hands up when Sam looked wary. "Look, you keep calling me a jerk and all I... I'm just telling the truth like it is. I... Father Fabian said you don't remember stuff. I can't remember things either. I had no idea what a 'Father Fabian' could be, until the memory came to me a little earlier. I don't know... I don't know how to talk to you, to other people. I'm sure I used to know how but somewhere along the road, I forgot everything. People keep getting mad at me, beating on me. I can't give them the right answers because I don't know what they are. I try to tell you, to thank you, to give you what you want... even to leave," he looked at the door, "but that gets you mad at me. I try to give you the only other thing I can and you make it seem bad, dirty. I don't have anything else to give. I don't know what you want," Dean said, thinking that had to be the longest speech anyone had ever given. 

Sam sighed and slumped against the wall, his head hanging dejectedly as he shook it, "Nothing," he murmured softly before lifting his head, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I don't want anything...your friendship maybe?" He suggested with a wry smile and a small shrug of one shoulder.

"I think you have that already. For what it's worth." It was clear from Dean's tone he knew his friendship held no value. 

Sam huffed softly and pulled away from the wall. He crossed the distance between himself and Dean and reached for him, smoothing his hands across Dean's shoulders since he seemed to have no will where touching this man was concerned. "Spend the day with me then," he suggested. "Come with me tonight to the orphanage and help me decorate the church this afternoon," he coaxed, allowing his hands to slip down Dean's arms to his hands, holding them lightly within his own. "Please...?"

"I'll come to the orphanage." The memory of how his hand and feet had burned when he'd sought sanctuary at the church was ingrained in his mind. He squeezed Sam's hands. "Why do you want to spend the day with a mean sonovabitch?" He asked. Every molecule in his body screamed for him to pull Sam into his arms, to show him what he needed, what would make both of them feel good. He would have too, but he didn't want to see fear or anger from this man again, not directed at himself.

Sam smiled at Dean's agreement to accompany him to the orphanage. He was about to open his mouth and thank him for doing something so sweet when the man's words caused him to pause and his brow to furrow. "Dean, I didn't..." he sighed and hung his head, lowering his gaze sadly before slowly lifting it to the man's face. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way, you're not a mean... um, things that you said there, you just... you frustrate me," he explained. "I want to spend the day with you because _that's_ what friends do, they do things together and if you are so adamant about the other stuff," he shyly gestured toward his bedroom, "then I need this too... otherwise yeah, I am gonna think it's wrong and a sin. You aren't supposed to just have sex willy nilly." 

"Why not? Because Father Fabian says so?" Dean challenged, but something alerted him that this was what flustered Sam, his directness. "Okay. Whatever you want, but... I'm not good with people," he reminded Sam. "What I'm good at is..." this time he was the one who looked toward the bedroom.

Sam's lips pressed into a thin angry line for a moment at Dean's remark about Father Fabian but his features relaxed with the man seemed to back off about things somewhat. "Well, I am good with people, so you can just follow my lead," he responded. His thumbs brushed back and forth tenderly across the sides of Dean's hands where he held them. "Is there anything you'd like to take care of today? Someone you need to call? Anything you can remember about why you were outside the way you were?" He inquired gently. 

Dean's eyes slid closed, the slide of Sam's thumbs against his palm making him want the things Sam didn't want to want. He forced his eyes open again. "I don't know anyone. I remember... remember the wolves eating at me. People chasing me, beating me. I read somewhere about sanctuary, but... I dunno, I looked inside your window and I fell. I didn't want anything from you. Not until you got in the bed with me."

Sam's brow creased in confusion and he pulled Dean's arms open wide as he looked the man up and down, his eyes slowly lifting to Dean as he lifted his brows. "Wolves eating you? I see no scars, not now or...." he let his words trail off as a blush stole over his features. He slowly stepped closer and drew Dean's arms in as he did, bringing the man's hands upward, held within his own. He tucked them underneath his chin as he gazed intently into eyes as green as the spring grass. "As for anyone beating you..." he murmured softly, his voice lowering an octave, "that should be counted as a sin too," he mused with a soft tender smile before he leaned in and pressed a small chaste kiss to the end of Dean's nose.

Dean started to follow Sam, leaning in to kiss him properly, maybe to try to make him forget about putting sex on the back burner. At the last second, he merely brushed against Sam's soft, tempting lips. "I know you don't believe me. But... believe this," he said, opening Sam's palm and showing him what that what had been a deep cut only yesterday appeared to only be a small scar. "Trust me, when it happened to me, I wished... I wished I couldn't be put back together. I'd had enough." 

Sam smiled softly, "It's not that I..." his words trailed away as Dean lifted his own hand for him to see. His eyes swung from his palm to the man and back, his brows lifting. "I've always healed quickly. Father says that I am very blessed," he looked back at his hand and frowned curiously. "I've never had a scar before this one though," he muttered half under his breath.

He lifted his gaze at Dean's next words and his eyes softened a look of pity crossing his features, "Is that what I found?" He inquired softly, "A man trying to end it all?" He mused. "You realize if you kill yourself you won't go to heaven."

"No, I didn't know," Dean answered, though his skepticism showed. "I don't know what I was trying to do. Dead just seemed better than alive, but... I don't know." He released Sam's hand. "You do have other scars like that. Barely visible, but they're there. Right here," he said, moving behind Sam and drawing lines along his shoulder blades over his tee shirt. "I... inspected you closely," he teased.

Sam blushed deeply and hung his head, a sheepish, slightly flattered grin curling his lips. "I - yeah those have been there since I came to be with the priests, no one seems to know what they are. Those and the deeper one on my side. Other than that however, I have nothing."

He looked back over his shoulder at Dean, turning slightly to face him, "I was helping Father Donovan fix the bell tower and fell from the steeple... I stood up without a scratch on me. Father Fabian said it was due to everyone's prayers." 

"I must have friends I don't know about... praying for me." Dean closed his arms around Sam's waist and nuzzled the side of his neck. Taking in his clean scent, Dean leaned against him, yearning for a _snack_. His eyes snapped open, he released Sam and moved away to look out the window, disturbed by the thought, but not sure why.

Sam started to tense. On the one hand he liked how it felt to be in Dean's embrace but on the other hand being in that embrace usually lead to things that Sam felt he should pray for forgiveness for afterwards. He was surprised, though, when Dean abruptly walked away, and he had to wonder if he had offended the man by being this guarded. No, that was unlikely since he'd been wary of Dean all night and most of the day and that hadn't stopped him. Not by a long shot. He had sore lips and a scratchy throat that attested to that. "Maybe you do," Sam agreed. "Maybe _I'll_ pray for you too," he suggested. 

"Alright. You do that." Sparkling under the sun, the snow looked beautiful. It was almost hard to believe the amount of pain and numbness it had inflicted on him. Turning, he noticed wariness had crept into Sam's eyes. Slowly, he walked to the couch and dropped down onto it. "Let's do it. Make friends."

Sam's lips curled into a wide smile as he looked down at Dean, "You'll see it won't be so bad," he mused. "Might even keep you from trying to off yourself in bad weather," he teased before turning and heading over to where he kept his paints and canvas. 

* * *

It was evening and Dean waited on the sidewalk for Sam to come out of church. He'd tried stepping close to the door, but the boots Sam had given him had started to smoke. It troubled Dean because it was concrete evidence that Sam was right, there was something more to him than human. Course, deep down, he'd known. But what did this all mean? 

He'd pulled a sweatshirt on over his tee shirt, but forgot to take the jacket Sam had hanged up next to the door. The wind was cold, but it didn't bother him too much. A few passersby did steal glances at him, though, like he was nuts to be walking around dressed like this. 

Sam pulled open the church door and stuck his head out, "Dean," he called, his voice hushed. "Dean, come here," he coaxed. He waited until Dean was only a few steps away, a smirk curling his lips. "Come inside, Sister Mary Margaret made cocoa," he said with a jerk of his head.

"No," Dean quickly answered. "I'm not welcome there. Not _really_ ," he said, giving Sam a pointed look. "I'd be more comfortable at this orphanage of yours. You promised it would be fun. This," he nodded toward the church, wishing things were different, "I respect your choices, but it's not my idea of fun."

Sam's brow creased in confusion as he eyed Dean though he nodded at the man's decision, "Okay, alright, you're wrong, you are welcome, but," he nodded, "if you don't want to come in, that's fine. Do you want me to bring you some cocoa? I'll just be another minute and then we can go."

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jeans and nodded. "Sure." As Sam disappeared through the doors, an unsettling and dark feeling passed through him. It took him a while to put a name to the emotion. Jealousy. He'd already shared Sam for long enough. He'd loved having Sam all to himself back at the cottage, watching him paint and listening to him talk about everyday things in a way that made them feel special. He was happy, genuinely happy, and a little of that happiness seemed to seep into Dean when they were together. Course Dean had wanted more than conversation at times. It had been hard, so damned hard, not to press Sam, not to seduce him even though he was damned sure he could. 

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Sam emerged, walking backwards and pushing the door with his back, laughing.

"Good night, Samuel, may God grant you sweet sleep," a woman's voice called.

"And the same to you," Sam called back before turning around and heading onto the side walk, a cup of cocoa for Dean held in one hand. He looked up, a wide smile splitting his face and making his dimples show. "Here, I brought you this," he murmured softly, passing Dean the paper cup with the hand protector wrapped around it, just like at those fancy coffee houses on Main Street. 

When Dean's fingers brushed against Sam's, Dean knew he wanted something other than a chocolate drink. But Sam was smiling at him just right and he wanted Sam to keep smiling just like that. "Thanks. Nice and hot," he said, bringing the cup to his mouth and taking a small sip. 

Sam's smile widened at Dean's words, if that was possible. He was smiling so wide his mouth was probably going to hurt later but right then, when everything was going so well and it was as though he and Dean were real friends, maybe even boyfriends, he couldn't help but smile.

They headed down the street. Dean remembered the last time he'd been here, he'd been naked, hurt, burned and close to death. How much difference a day made. "Is it alright to tell you that you look great in red?" he asked, bumping lightly against Sam.

Sam chuckled softly and nodded, "Yeah, you can say that if you want to," he allowed. "You could... you could even hold my hand if you wanted to," he permitted. His eyes met Dean's and his smile died just a little bit as he gave a small shake of his head. "Start with my hand, it's the right way to do it," he explained. "After a while...who knows..." 

"You sure? Your friends..." Dean let that hang out there. He could tell a lot of people in town knew Sam, just from the way many of the people they passed nodded or spoke to him. 

Sam grinned, "My friends'll think it's about time the poor priest's boy got himself a friend," he joked with a wink. "It's okay, Dean, if you don't want to," he said with a shrug. "I was just offering... a sort of compromise I guess." 

"I don't want to? Ha!" Dean snorted and took Sam's hand in his. "You confuse me." He looked down at the ground for a while, then back at Sam as they walked. "I guess that makes us even," he added. 

As they neared a large brick building, he saw a lot of people going in, many of them dressed in clothing from another century. Looking up, he read the sign and realized it was their destination. "You didn't say it was a big event," he said, sliding his thumb back and forth over Sam's palm. 

Sam glanced down at their hands before giving Dean's hand a gentle squeeze as he lifted his gaze to the man's face. "It's not a big event, they're just putting on a play," he assured, "Come on, they'll love you."

Allowing Sam to tug him to the door, Dean opened it and followed Sam inside. They went down a hall and then walked through some double doors that had a placard that said 'cafeteria.' Inside the large room, a small stage had been set up and chairs were lined up right in front of the stage, with other chairs more casually left around tables. Punch, hot apple cider and a lot of snacks were being served at a long table. With all of the Christmas decorations on the wall, Dean had to wonder if Sam had a hand in it.

They hadn't gone more than a few steps when several kids ran over and surrounded them, one of them clinging to Sam's leg and screaming something Dean couldn't understand. "Fans of yours?" he asked.

Sam laughed as his attention darted between the kids and Dean, "Yeah," he agreed. He reached down and pulled one of the little girls who was dressed like an angel up into his arms. He whispered in her ear as she was very shy and asked her how she was doing.

The little girl clung tightly to Sam has wide blue eyes never leaving Dean until Sam's neck blocked her vision. Leaning in to speak into Sam's ear, she whispered back, "Who is that man? I don't like him."

"Aww, Bethany, you can't say that, it isn't nice," Sam scolded gently. "You don't even know him."

She leaned in again, "He's not nice like you, he's a bad man," she whispered then began to wiggle in Sam's arms in an attempt to get down, letting out a small squawk just before Sam released her and she ran off across the room. 

Sam looked over at Dean, his brow furrowed in a frown as he shook his head. "She didn't mean that," he apologized. 

Dean gave him a shrug. "I've been called worse." Following Sam to the snack table, he refused food and lifted his full cup of cocoa as an excuse for not getting anything else to drink. Sam told him a little about the orphanage and showed him some of the artwork that he'd painted and which were displayed on the walls.

After a while, it became quite clear that Sam was extremely popular with the kids who swarmed around him. It was equally obvious that the children avoided Dean, shying away from him, or looking at him like he was something out of their nightmares. 

During the children's play, Dean sat next to Sam. He could see how proud Sam was of the kids and how involved he was in their lives because, every once in a while, Sam would lean close and give the background of certain of the kids, telling him what they'd overcome and how brave they were. The people he'd seen in antiquated clothing also took the stage, singing carols or providing back up for the kids.

After the play, Sam was once again swarmed by the children. Painfully aware that he was not welcome by the kids, Dean moved away from Sam and the kids. It was strange. While his experiences, the ones he remembered, had always consisted of adults being less than kind to him, the opposite was true in this place. He asked a brief question or made a minor comment and quite a few people started to hang onto his every word, to follow him around even. He felt their lust, the way he sensed it from Sam. Only, while it took a lot of work for him to get Sam to react when Sam didn't want to, these others ... he knew they'd spread their legs right here if he asked them to.

 _I'm not Asmodeus. I'm not the demon of lust._ He didn't want to be, and he was quite sure he wasn't Asmodeus. But he had questions, more questions as each hour passed. And he was afraid to share his thoughts, the things he discovered about himself, the things he remembered, with Sam. Every discovery was of the sort that would have that kind innocent man running from him.

As he plucked a woman's hand off his arm, he watched Sam laughing and making the kids laugh. Maybe he should be kind, maybe he should just leave before he brought a world of heartache to Sam. That's what his gut said, but his heart gave Dean an entirely different message. He wanted to stay. 

Sam hugged each of the kids around him in turn and slowly pulled to his feet from the chair he'd been sitting in telling them stories half the night. He knew Dean had to be getting tired of it all and the sad part was it wasn't as though the man had anyone else to talk to. Lifting his attention he scanned the area looking for Dean only to find him within a circle of workers and townspeople. His eyes widened as he made his way over and politely edged his way through the others to Dean's side. 

"Wow, you sure have made a lot of friends," he remarked in astonishment. "Not that I didn't think you would but, it's just so fast," Sam quickly explained. "Did you enjoy yourself?" 

"Oh I think they took pity on me because I came with you," Dean answered. "Yeah, I did."

Sam's attention darted to the side as he thanked one of the older children for bringing him his jacket and quickly slipped it on over his thick red sweater and adjusted his scarf. "Well, I think we can head home now unless you wanted to stay..."

"No, I'm good with taking off." As they made their way to the exit, they kept getting stopped, mostly by people wanting to say goodnight to Sam. While one of them started to talk to Sam about a studio wanting his paintings on consignment, Dean noticed that the little girl who'd hated him on sight had gotten hold of a lit candle and that her hand was not steady. Before he could say anything, she accidentally tilted it and instantly, the long heavy curtains next to her caught fire. Screaming, she grabbed a handful of the curtain, tearing it off the rod.

By the time Dean ran across the room, the material of the curtain had wrapped around her like a mantel. People were screaming and someone was running for the fire retarding spray. Lunging through the air, Dean closed his arms around the child and dragged her to the ground, rolling with her until the flames died down.

She was screaming. People around them were screaming. In that moment, Dean flashed on images of himself rescuing another kid from the depths of freezing cold water. He saw men with guns reaching to help him pull the child out. And there were other images, confusing ones.

The next thing Dean knew someone was shaking his shoulder and asking if he was alright and did he need the paramedics to check him. He shook his head 'no' then put his hand out, grabbing Sam's and pulling himself up. "Is she going to be alright?" he asked, seeing the gurney disappear through the front door.

"Yeah, yeah she is...thanks to you," Sam answered, awe in his voice as his gaze roamed over Dean curiously and with concern. "But are you?" He inquired, noting the burned spots in the borrowed shirt that Dean wore and the reddened skin of the man's arm. "I know how ambulances are but...maybe I should take you to the hospital," he suggested, running his hands over the injured flesh on Dean's arm, his worry too distracting for him to even realize that the flesh under his palms was in the process of healing even as they stood there among the others.

"No hospitals. I'm okay," Dean said, seeing part of the sweatshirt had burned off his body. Nothing hurt, at least not in the way anyone in the room would expect. However Sam's touches brought with them a craving. The craving that felt like extreme hunger and which had left him alone now for quite a while, to the point he'd forgotten about it. "Let's go," he whispered, his gaze lingering on Sam's lips. Could he make Sam want him? He glanced at some of the people he'd interested without even trying, then looked back at Sam.

Lips pressed into a flat line Sam nodded, "Yeah, okay," he agreed thought his concerned gaze continued to roam over Dean. "Dean," he murmured and suddenly stepped closer, wrapping his arms around the man, pulling him in. He dipped his head, burying his face against the side of Dean's neck, dropping a soft kiss against the tender flesh in full view of everyone. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered before pulling away and stepping back. He reached for Dean's hand, clasping it firmly but gently within his own as he turned his attention to the others, wishing them all a good night and telling them goodbye. 

Dean's free hand rubbed over the spot Sam kissed. It still burned and tingled as they walked out into the cold night. "Let's go through the woods," Dean suggested, hardly giving Sam a chance to argue, as he tugged him away from the street and up a small road from where they'd easily get to the forest. 

After they were off the street and walking in the snow, sometimes sinking ankle deep in it, Dean started to watch Sam from under his lashes. _Want me. Need me._ Thoughts of pressing Sam against the trees, kissing him, making him breathless and horny, slammed into him. If only he could share these thoughts, these images. _Want me like that_. His hand tightened on Sam's, his fingers sliding between Sam's.

Sam's brow furrowed as they walked, strange images starting to flash before his vision again. Lifting his head he tried to blink them away. Lifting a hand as he squeezed his eyes closed with a groan he pressed the pads of his index finger and thumb against his eyes.

"Dean, I..." he grunted.

Sam saw himself pressed up against a tree naked with Dean's naked body against his, the two of them moving wantonly together then writhing in the snow. Scarlet snow, tinted by the blood that dotted his brow as he thrashed under Dean's body, his face a mask of pain. Dean wasn't helping him, wasn't stopping to see what was wrong, only moving against him, satisfying his lust.

Sam staggered and nearly collided with a tree, only his hand held out in front of him stopped Sam from slamming into it. "Please," he whispered hoarsely, "get me home."

"Sam." Moving in front of Sam and putting his own back against the tree trunk, Dean pulled Sam into his arms, bringing Sam's body up hard against his own. "Are you alright?" he whispered, his mouth hovering over Sam's ear, his hot breaths misting and blowing across the sensitive skin of Sam's neck. "What do you need?" _Please let it be me._ He ran one hand down Sam's back and over his ass, squeezing lightly. 

Sam's breaths panted out against Dean's lips, ghosting against his cheeks, as he gazed at the man through heavy lidded eyes. His lips parted to speak, to tell Dean that he wasn't sure what it was that was wrong but that he didn't feel well, that he felt weak and that he needed to lie down only to lose all thought at the feel of Dean's lips brushing against his ear. He sucked in a gasp of air at the sensation of the man's warm breath at his neck, the hard length of his body crushed against his own. His back arched and his hips cantered forward as though of their own accord. Sam's lips moved like a fish out of water, his brain trying, scrambling to find the words to speak, to tell Dean what he needed. What _did_ he need?

"Please help me," Sam begged breathlessly. 

"Yes," Dean whispered, Sam's needy plea ratcheting up the desire that was building as a result of Sam's restless movements against him. He wheeled Sam around, pushed him against the tree and crushed his mouth over Sam's. As their lips slid together, a deep moan escaped Dean. He'd held himself in check all day, but now ... now he had Sam where he wanted him, and Sam wanted him back. He wasn't gonna think beyond that.

Sam's hands rose, fingers curling, fisting desperately in the burned material of Dean's sweatshirt. His eyes squeezed tightly closed as his back connected with the tree and a gasp of breath was knocked from his lungs. He barely had a chance to recover, drawing breath into his lungs as his eyes started to flutter open only to slam back closed again as Dean's mouth crushed over his own.   
Dean's tongue delved into the wet heat of Sam's mouth and Dean's world narrowed. He twisted his tongue around Sam's, demanding a response, his body pressing relentlessly against Sam, his movements sensuous and geared to elicit a response. _Want me._

Sam moaned into Dean's mouth, the response torn from him almost against his will as his body warred with his mind. One wanting more of what Dean was offering while the other told him, warned him that he should run as far and as fast as he could from this man, that Dean would be his undoing.

Sensing Sam's resistance and his lust, Dean felt confusion. "Why do you fight it, this?" he asked against Sam's lips, his hand sliding from Sam's hip up, under his jacket and sweater, across warm skin stretched taut over muscle. He caressed Sam in slow circles, moving his hand up his chest. "Is it so bad to want me? Is it so bad to feel this good? Kiss me. Tell me you want this. Ask me for more," he said, aching for the things he needed.

Sam gulped in a breath, his eyes darting open. His chest rose and fell heavily with each panted breath as he gazed into Dean's face with both desire and trepidation. "Because it is not right," he replied simply to Dean's first question. His breaths hitched and his is eyes slammed closed as his muscles tensed and rippled under Dean's touch, reacting to the warmth of Dean's hand moving lustfully against Sam's bare flesh. His breaths quickened and his nipples pebbled as Dean's hand slid across his chest. His eyes slipped open as his back arched into the touch and a groan tumbled from Sam's lips. He grit his teeth stubbornly against any further pleasured sounds as he stared into Dean's face and lifted his chin.

"Yes," he hissed softly. "It is wrong to want, _this_ ," he answered. "I can feel it deep in my soul, I have never had nightmares...visions such as the ones I have now and suddenly I long to lay with a man when I have gone... this long without?" He gave a nod, "Yes, this is wrong," he reiterated. "It doesn't matter what I want or what I _think_ I want..." his eyes searched Dean's face. "If you and I, we were someone else," he gave a nod, "I would very much like to love you."

Dean stilled. He could _make_ Sam give him what he wanted, push him a little harder. Didn't Sam remember last night, how perfect it had been. He longed for that again, wanted to show it to Sam again, except Sam’s words, a softly whispered wish, touched him somewhere that had nothing to do with his body or the desires torturing him. 

"You'd like to love me." Dean sniffed and pulled away, back from temptation. "You mean if I were normal. If I weren't me." Aching for what he knew would never be, he took Sam's hand and started marching through the snow.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam hung his head in silence at Dean's words. Though when Dean held his hand tight, Sam sighed softly, feeling both relieved and disappointed as he trudged through the snow alongside Dean. 

Once they reached his house, Sam quickly unlocked the door. The silence that stretched between them was awkward, and now, all Sam wanted was to get inside, make up the couch into a second bed where he could lay down and get some sleep and try to forget the pain he'd glimpsed in Dean's eyes. He hadn't known how to answer Dean's statement that he'd love Dean if Dean were someone else because frankly that was exactly it. If Dean weren't Dean, if something about him didn't feel wrong, then maybe... His thoughts were about as messed up as his visions. 

"I'm getting blankets to sleep on the sofa, give you some room," Sam mumbled once he'd hung up his jacket and was headed down the hall. 

"I'm not taking your bed. I don't need blankets, or anything," Dean answered, watching Sam disappear into his bedroom. He ran a hand over his face and walked into the living room, very conscious of the fact he'd brought up yet something else that made him less than human. Tearing off the remains of the charred sweatshirt, he stood in front of the fire, staring into it. They'd been surrounded by happy people all night, why couldn't he be one of them? Why couldn't he just be what Sam wanted? 

Sam returned with a pillow and warm blanket for himself. "My room should be for my guest," he muttered softly as he walked past Dean and then silently started to make up his bed. From under his lashes, he watched Dean who was standing next to the fire. He noted the way the low light danced across Dean's skin, illuminating smooth areas of flesh while bathing others in shadows, causing his eyes to sparkle and emphasizing tempting full lips.

"You seem more at home over there next to my fireplace than you do anywhere else in my house," he remarked gently, the corner of his lips quirking upward softly. 

House. Where was his own home? Was it a nice place like this? Small and neat, bright and cheery? Some place quiet and surrounded by woods? A flash of images carded through Dean's mind. Random motel rooms. A beauty of a classic car. Miles of open road. Fast food containers on the passenger side of the car. Beer bottles lining a table. And then he was back, back with Sam, in this room, in the present.

When Dean turned, he caught a glimpse of admiration in Sam's eyes. It gave him a nice feeling, but it couldn't compare with the searing heat he needed. "Maybe I like playing with fire." Quietly, without arguing anymore about the sleeping arrangements, Dean dropped down to the ground in front of the fire and lay back, bracing himself on his elbows and watching the flames. The hunger stirred within him and for a long moment, he closed his eyes against it.

"Maybe you do," Sam allowed softly, a fond smile curling his lips. Lowering his attention to his makeshift bed, he tossed back the covers and turned around. "I'm just gonna change," he muttered as he stepped past Dean and headed down the hall. 

Stepping into his bedroom, Sam lightly pushed the door closed behind him. As he walked toward the bed, he gripped the hem of his sweater and pulled it up and over his head. Tossing the thick sweater across the room, he reached for the crumpled pajama top on the bed, only to pause thoughtfully. Grabbing the shirt, he pitched it toward the laundry basket then reached for the bottoms and did the same. 

Crossing to the chest, he crouched and pulled open the bottom drawer. Withdrawing a clean pair of pajamas, he pulled to his full height and placed the PJs on the foot of the bed. Taking the pajama shirt in hand, he shook it out and pulled it on over his arms. He left the pajama top unbuttoned as he reached for the fastenings of his jeans, undoing the button and zipper. Toeing off his sneakers he pushed his jeans down his hips and along his thighs, allowing them to pool at his ankles before stepping out of them. 

Dean stood in the hallway, entranced. When Sam had taken his time, Dean had followed after him to tell him he really should go ahead and take the bed. He'd intended to announce his presence, he really had, but then he'd seen him through the narrow gap of the slightly ajar door and his hunger abruptly sharpened. Maybe if he fed it a little, maybe if he watched, he could store the images in his memory and later, he could jack off to them. Course there was a niggling in his mind telling him it would be as about as effective as eating food, but he ignored it. 

As his gaze roved over Sam's well-muscled form, he couldn't help lingering over the bulge in his boxers when he moved just right and the material strained over his cock. He remembered too well how Sam felt in his hand, in his mouth. How hard he got, how he flushed from head to toe. How he tasted and smelled. He remembered the sounds Sam made once he gave in and started to plead the way Dean wanted him to.

Heat washed through Dean. And something darker. He'd taken two silent steps before he managed to stop himself. He should walk away, he _would_ walk away, he promised himself, though his gaze remained glued on the man inside the bedroom. 

Sam turned toward the door as he grabbed the bottoms to his pajamas and shook them out. He leaned back slightly against the mattress, bracing himself as he lifted a leg to the pant leg of his pajamas. He was just about to slip his foot inside the hole when his eyes lifted and he saw Dean standing there, at the crack of the apparently not fully closed door. He gasped in a startled breath just before he found himself tumbling backward onto the mattress.

 _Damn._ Dean slowly pushed the door open. "You alright? I was coming to tell you..." He could tell from the way Sam was looking at him, Sam didn't believe. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Sam would never know what it took for Dean to turn on his heels and leave rather than to force Sam to recognize his own needs.

Sitting up on the bed, Sam had only been able to stare at Dean incredulously. He'd told Dean where he was going, what he was doing and if he'd needed to speak to him so badly he could have knocked on the door. Called to him. Anything but stand there in the hallway watching him get undressed like some kind of pervert. He huffed softly as he heard Dean's footsteps down the hall and remembered that this wasn't the first time he'd associated the word with Dean. _Pervert._

*

For a while, Dean paced the living room, haunted by the accusation in Sam's eyes. He wanted to be a good man. He wanted to make Sam smile. He wanted Sam to look at him with adoration, the way he sometimes did, when he wasn't being horrified or scandalized. 

He should leave this man. Leave him to his peace. Yeah, that made the most sense. Before one of them broke the other. 

And yet, Dean shut the lights and went to lay down on the sofa, pulling the sheets and blanket up over himself, gathering the material and half of the pillow and burying his nose in them, taking a deep breath. _Want me_. He rolled over onto his stomach, grinding his hips down. _Want me._ His eyes fluttered open. No, he wasn't doing that. Sam was already disgusted with him. Forcing his mind away from his hunger, from his needs, he closed his eyes and compelled himself to sleep.

Only... Dean couldn't control his dreams, or how they affected the object of his desires. 

*  
Sam rolled over in bed. After their brief argument about who should take the couch and then seeing Dean peeping through the door, he never left his room again. This probably didn't make him host of the year, but Dean seemed to know how to push him to the breaking point... in more ways than one. Ways he didn't want to think about or remember. 

Only he did, he remembered every touch and every kiss. Remembered the way it felt to be in Dean's arms, the way his body felt crushed against Dean's. He remembered the hard press of Dean's cock and the gentle press of his lips. He remembered the hunger in Dean's movements tempered by the desire to be tender. He remembered it all, including the scent that seemed to cling to the man and which now permeated his bed linens, even the fresh ones he'd just made his bed with.

These thoughts and feelings had Sam's eyes slipping open. "Dean?" He inquired groggily as he turned his head, peering into the darkness. The silence was unnerving.

Sam threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed, sitting up on the side of the mattress and blinking blearily in the dark room. His brow furrowed as his head slowly bowed, his gaze lowering to the quite noticeable erection tenting the front of his pajama bottoms. Lifting his hands, he scrubbed his face before rising to his feet. 

His hands fell limply to his sides as he began stumbling out of his room and down the hall toward the living room. He paused just inside the dimly lit area, watching the firelight dance across Dean's lax features as he lay on his side on the sofa, facing the fireplace. Sam's head tilted to the side and he leaned silently against the wall, simply watching Dean sleep, enjoying the view of this man as he lay basking in the fire's golden glow.

Dean stirred, shifting his legs and gripping the edge of the sofa, squeezing the soft cushions and moving restlessly. Need... desire brushed his mind. Want. A craving so sharp it had him gasping for air as it gripped him... startled him awake. He opened his eyes and unerringly found Sam's across the room. 

He stared hotly back at Sam, debating with himself. Let him go. He doesn't want this, doesn't want it with you. Another part of him argued back, it was Sam who'd come to him. Sam who was standing there, with his lips parted, staring at him, telegraphing his needs. "Come," he said, putting his hand out and willing Sam to come to him.

For a long moment, Sam continued to stand there, his lips parted as he softly panted in his breaths, his body tingling with want, with desire for the things that this man always offered, and yet knowing it wasn't right, that this wasn't something that he should want. His gaze darted away from Dean looking into the fire as he drew in a tortured breath, struggling against the need that welled up inside him, the images of himself and Dean naked on the floor, their bodies tangled together wantonly. 

Sam swallowed hard as he looked back at Dean and, in the next moment, he found himself crossing the distance that separated them. He didn't feel his legs move, didn't feel his sock clad feet step across the hardwood floor, he only knew that in the next moment he was standing directly in front of Dean, and then he was kneeling, his face near Dean's. "I want you," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know." Dean couldn't keep the triumphant edge from his voice. He leaned in and slanted his mouth across Sam's, kissing him lightly, then slanting his mouth in the opposite direction, kissing him again. Right there and then, he knew he could pull Sam's pants halfway down and fuck him into the floor and Sam wouldn't resist, that he'd give him anything he wanted. Dark thoughts clamored in his head but Dean fought them, again kissing Sam the way he deserved, unselfishly, seductively, but not pressing him, not forcing things along. 

As they kissed, Dean lowered his feet to the floor and sat up, pulling Sam up and dragging him across his lap, moaning when Sam's weight settled over his cock. Taking Sam in his arms, he kissed him again, and again, each time a little more aggressively but somehow maintaining a little playfulness. With one hand, he started to caress and undress Sam, pulling his socks off, then running his hands up and down his thighs. He lightly rocked his palm over Sam's erection and used his thumb to unbutton his fly, clumsy jerky motions that Sam couldn't ignore, but couldn't acknowledge as he was having the daylight kissed out of him.

There was something a little different this time when Dean's lips moved over Sam's, it was the first thing that Sam noticed other than how good Dean felt and how wonderful he tasted. His arms wrapped instinctively around Dean, his hands massaging and caressing against the man's back, first over the light tee that he'd borrowed and then underneath it as Sam bunched the fabric upward, needing, wanting to press his hands against Dean's warm flesh. 

Sam arched against Dean wantonly, his heart much lighter than before, the intensity of the feelings tugging him toward Dean having shifted, changed subtly. Though it was still there, it was much more playful than before and less...dark...needy...hungry. He groaned low in his throat and his hips cantered forward as Dean worked at the buttons of his fly before grinding down against Dean's hard cock beneath him. _Oh yeah, more, please more..._

Dean teased Sam, sometimes giving him pressure over his cock and sometimes making him chase his hand and only touching him lightly, swallowing his groans and complaints. He knew if he gave Sam nothing, if he just kissed him and touched his chest and ground his own cock against the backs of Sam's thighs and his ass, Sam would be pleading and crying for more, that it would happen quickly. But somehow, he managed to take a less drastic way, winding him up slowly, fanning the flames of his lust but not so much that it burned out of control and cause Sam pain until he pleaded.

He moved his hand higher, unbuttoning Sam's pajama top, though he brought his hand back over Sam's cock each time he successfully undid a button and felt Sam start to thrash around on his lap. When he reached the top button, Dean pushed the material off Sam's shoulders and kissed him there as he peeled the shirt off. "You're so damned beautiful," he whispered thickly. 

_So are you,_ was what ran through Sam's head as he groaned and bucked up against Dean, one hand sliding upward, fingers threading in and curling into a tight fist amongst the short spiky strands of Dean's hair. "Dean," he gasped, rubbing his hard pulsing cock up against Dean's body. His head tilted back and his back arched, breaths panting harshly from between kiss swollen lips. "Say it," he panted and squeezed his eyes closed against the need rushing through his body. "Please say it, Dean... Tell me you love me..." 

Dean's heart both lifted and crashed. Why did Sam have to complicate this. Why? He was doing this completely wrong. Sam should be begging, begging to be touched, to be fucked. Other demands, they shouldn't be crossing his mind. Dean pushed his hands under the waistband of Sam's pajama bottoms and started to slide them down, one side at a time. Bending his head, he kissed Sam's stomach, sucking on it hard. "I want to love you," he said against Sam's smooth skin. "Want to be everything you could ever want in a man." 

"Take off your clothes," Sam panted as he writhed on Dean's lap, "Wanna see you. Take 'em off for me, please..." he begged breathlessly. He reached for Dean, tugging at the man's clothes, pulling the borrowed tee up and over his head, tossing it across the room away from them before lowering his hands to the waistband of Dean's boxer shorts. Sam tore savagely at them in frenzied attempt to remove them, one of his hands slipped below the elastic band as the other cupped the side of Dean's face. His breaths panted heavily from between his softly parted lips as he gently forced Dean to tilt his face toward his own, their eyes meeting. 

Dean held his breath, his heart ramming in his chest as he felt Sam's hand move inside his shorts.

Sam stroked his fingers along the velvety smooth skin of Dean's hard cock, his thumb encircling the tip. "Love me and you can have me," Sam whispered thickly.

"Oh God," Dean groaned. Sam's sudden aggression and his light touches were driving him to the edge of madness. "Nghh..." he stole another kiss from Sam, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to bar the images of other people, so many of them, looking up at him through sunken hollow eyes, asking, 'I thought you loved me.' His answer was always the same, 'This isn't about love.'

He tried to hide from the images, to lose himself in Sam's kisses, to raise his hips and use the sensations that washed through him and to push away the shrouded past.

_This isn't about love._

Dean's eyes snapped open. Yes it was. It was about love. About being saved. About a connection. About finding an equal, someone he didn't want to vanquish. 

"I love you, Sam," he whispered. "I love you. I want you. I want to have you, so fucking bad. Let me have you. Ask me, please," he said on a dry sob, ashamed he hadn't been able to prevent himself from asking for something for himself, for his dark side. "Ask me to take you."

Breathless, Sam nodded as he continued to swirl his thumb around the head of Dean's dick, dipping down into the slit. His lips twitched upward, slowly spreading into a smile before his tongue darted out, licking across his lips.   
"I love you too, Dean," he whispered huskily. His throat convulsed as he swallowed hard and he nodded again, "Yeah, take me," he agreed. "Make love to me, Dean," he breathed softly, "please..."

When Sam finally said all the right things, he set Dean's blood on fire. Pushing both of them off the couch, Dean stood in front of Sam. His shorts looked like someone had pitched a tent in them, and Sam's pajamas were in the same shape. He put his hands on Sam's hips, pulling him close and groaning as their hard cocks collided. One step at a time, he walked Sam backwards, around the coffee table and in front of the fire. 

Taking a pained step back, he pulled Sam's pants down his legs, scrutinizing him as he stepped out of the pants. The fire light and shadows played over Sam's body and the sight of his jutting cock and hardened nipples stole Dean's breath. He dropped his own shorts, kicked them away and allowed Sam a moment to take him in the same way he'd enjoyed looking at Sam.

Desire. Need. Hunger. Dean wanted Sam so bad, his cock was heavy and painful, his skin feverishly hot everywhere. He took a step towards Sam, grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging so their mouths collided. Instantly, he took control of the kiss, weaving his tongue in and out of Sam's mouth and using his free hand to mold Sam against him, moving constantly against him, rubbing against his cock in a way that would keep him hard and needy.

Sam's knees started to buckle when Dean's hand fisted in his hair and he drew their mouths together. His hand had been hovering near Dean's groin and now, he moved it slightly, curling his fingers around Dean's cock and squeezing as he groaned into Dean's kiss. His free hand lifted, fingertips digging into the skin of Dean's back as he clung tightly to him.

So good. Sam felt and tasted so damned good. And the things he was doing, the way he was daring to experiment and to touch him, it had Dean wanting to do things with Sam, things Sam wasn't ready for. Moving his mouth back and forth over Sam's lips, he touched Sam everywhere, his hand gliding up and down Sam's body, gripping him possessively, claiming him. The heat between them built, pushed Dean to get a little rougher to go so far as to taste blood.

Tearing his mouth away from Sam's and breathing hard, he stared at him, then dragged him down to the floor. On his knees, between Sam's thighs, he leaned over Sam and sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Releasing it, he kissed his way down the column of Sam's throat then his chest, teasing and licking him. He ran his tongue around Sam's nipple and pulsed against it then moved to his other nipple. 

When he pulled back, he whispered, "If I could paint, this is how I'd paint you. Hard," he said, letting his gaze drop to Sam's swollen cock. "Aroused," his hand grazed Sam's erect nipple. "Blushing. Wanting," he said, splaying his hand wide over Sam's abs, loving how they tightened under his touch. "With my name on your lips. That look in your eyes, for me. Only me," he said, leaning again and licking Sam's lips.

Sam lay panting, gazing desirously up at Dean, his body throbbing, aching for Dean's touch. His cock pulsed thick and heavy between his legs. His back arched wantonly, begging wordlessly for Dean to touch his hardened nipples and hips bucking with need, wanting.... _more_. His gaze swung briefly from Dean to the canvas sitting across the room before returning to Dean. His hand released its hold around Dean's dick and lifted, fingertips brushing against Dean's flushed cheek. "I should paint you," he whispered. "My own angel," he mused softly. 

_Pretty little liar._ He was no angel, and they both knew it, but Dean turned his head and kissed Sam's palm. "First, I'm going to paint you," he said with a hint of a smile.

Backing away, he hooked both arms under Sam's knees and lifted them, simultaneously dipping his head down and licking the sensitive place right behind Sam's balls, then using his tongue to paint lines over every inch of Sam's balls. 

Sam's brows furrowed in confusion to Dean's words until Dean began _painting_ along the most sensitive parts of his body. Gasping in a breath, Sam's eyes rolled upward as his lashes fluttered and his eyes slid closed on a deep guttural groan, his back arching, hips bucking, pushing more of his groin toward the wet warmth of Dean's mouth.

When Sam squirmed, Dean held him in place and kept lavishing his attention only on his balls until the soft sounds coming from Sam were needy enough. Then he licked his dick, taking his tip in his mouth. He sucked lightly on it, humming when he tasted precum, then releasing Sam's cock.

He rocked back onto his knees again, his heart banging loudly as he locked gazes with Sam. He spit into his hand and started to stroke his own cock, biting his lower lip as he imagined what it would feel like to be inside Sam. 

Sam gazed up at Dean, his eyes darting between his lovers face and Dean's hand, watching as it moved along the length of Dean's cock. His tongue poked out from between his lips, the pink tip just barely running along the line of his lips as he breathlessly watched. His wanton hungry gaze devouring the sight. His attention darted back to Dean and Sam bit at his own bottom lip, the lustful look in his eyes softening.

Sam was looking at him with so much trust, so much love, and a part of Dean told him maybe this wasn't how he should take Sam. Maybe he should give him time, use lube, take him on a comfortable bed. All those thoughts went through his head but were discarded. He needed Sam. Needed him now and it wasn't negotiable. The hunger was back, beating at him, it was hard enough taming it, preventing himself from taking too much. 

His own precum was steadily drizzling now and he used it to lubricate his cock and Sam's hole, nudging his blunt tip over Sam's puckered skin again and again. "Gonna be inside you Sam. Gonna be one with you," he said, "tell me you want it."

Sam's hand that had been cupping Dean's cheek slid back, cupping the nape of Dean's neck, pulling him in close as he gaze adoringly up at Dean. "I don't know what you are, angel or demon or something different all together, I just know that I found you and you're mine... I love you..." he whispered huskily as he searched Dean's face. "Tell me you love me... and then prove it... make love to me, Dean," he coaxed thickly.

"I don't know what I am Sam. I don't know what you are, either, other than something... someone very special. My savior," he answered, his face inches from Sam's as he spoke. "I love you," he whispered, running his hand through Sam's hair, then cupping his face as he lowered his mouth down over Sam's, kissing him fiercely, loving him the way Sam wanted to be loved. 

Sam sighed into the kiss, his hand at Dean's nape sliding upward, fingers tangling in the silken short strands of Dean's hair as his other arm moved around Dean, tightening his hold around him, pulling him in impossibly close as needy moans tumbled from his lips to be swallowed up in the kiss. He moved a leg, wrapping it around one of Dean's, sliding his leg up and down in a small area, his hips grinding up wantonly against Dean as he returned the kiss for all he was worth, trying his best to convey the same depth of emotion that Dean was showing him.

Dean started to rock and thrust, getting Sam used to the presence of his cock and getting himself hot and hard in the process. He could feel Sam trembling and tried to kiss away his fears, to sooth him with whispered words between kisses. 

When Dean thrust against him and the head of his dick snagged against his body, sliding along his cleft, Sam gasped in a breath, tearing his lips briefly from Dean's though he fought to continue the kiss again immediately. He wanted to be brave and to show Dean that he wasn't afraid that he trusted him, that he _loved_ him. Fear quickened his pulse and had his hands trembling despite his best attempts to prove otherwise. 

Dean was going as slow as he could, but with his dark needs beating at him, too quickly, he came to the point where he couldn't wait any longer. Sliding his free hand between their bodies he aligned himself then cupped Sam's ass with one hand, lifting him as he pushed inside, kissing him hard as if willing his pain away.

When Dean pushed his cock inside him, Sam ripped his lips from Dean's, gasping audibly, his eyes snapping wide open with pain and fear. He gripped Dean's back, his fingertips digging hard into Dean's flesh while he involuntarily tugged on Dean's hair with the other. His neck arched and he grit his teeth as he gulped in hiccupped breaths, tears stinging the corners of his eyes and causing their hazel green depths to sparkle like diamonds in the low light.   
"Dean," he choked out hoarsely, "please...tell me...how much...you love me..." 

"Love you Sam," Dean said, sounding strained as he strained to go slower. "Love you so much. It's gonna be okay. Gonna make you feel good, so good, okay baby, gonna be good," he crooned, gently but relentlessly continued to push his cock inside Sam one inch at a time. "Ngh..." he groaned, bucking suddenly and burying himself all the way inside, his hips flat now against Sam's ass and thighs. "We're there... it'll be good now. Kiss me. Want me. Need me," he said, pulsing ever so lightly, feeling the dark tendrils of desire and need winding through him, making him ask again for those things, even when what his heart wanted was to make this only about Sam and not about his own hunger.

Sam's brow creased softly with pain and he whimpered and tugged at Dean, pulling him down, fitting his mouth over Dean's in a harsh brutal kiss, his teeth nipping at Dean's lips and battling his tongue. His hands clawed at Dean's scalp and back, clinging to him. Slowly he experimentally moved under Dean, his hips cantering and pushing gently back against Dean.

 _Sonova..._ Dean hadn't expected Sam to pull at him and raise his hips like that. It almost had Dean pulling out and slamming back inside him ... almost. Sam couldn't know how hard it was for Dean to stay still, to let Sam move and experiment, moaning out his pleasure when Sam figured out he could clench his inner muscles. As if he weren't already so damned tight. As if Dean weren't having enough troubles. As if the dark part of his nature wasn't urging him on, screaming at him to fuck Sam, to just show him exactly what he needed.

Instead, Dean held onto his control by a mere thread. He kissed Sam back, giving as good as he got, letting Sam have control, then taking it back. As the urge to thrust built, he groaned and broke the kiss. "Put your legs around me. Let me f... let me love you," he said, a hint of urgency in his voice. 

Sam's tongue darted out as he stared up at Dean, licking across his lips. He nodded and did as Dean asked, lifting his long legs and wrapping them around Dean's waist. He shifted his hand, sliding it from Dean's back upward, cupping it over the back of Dean's shoulder, holding him tightly. 

"Okay," Sam breathed softly, gazing up at Dean with perfect love and perfect trust shining in the depths of his eyes, "love me, my beloved Dean," he murmured huskily as he lifted his hips marginally and pushed back against Dean. 

"Now that's not something you hear every day," Dean teased, rocking very slowly, trying to distract not only Sam, but himself. "I am. Gonna love you. Love you all night," he promised, moving faster, sometimes pulling partially out, gauging Sam's reactions. When Sam's heels started to dig into his back, he shifted the angle of his thrusts and started fucking him with the single minded goal of rocking his world, of driving him wild, of satisfying the lust he felt coming from him even if his first instinct was to inflame it, make him plead, make him work for it. 

Sam soon found a rhythm of grinding back against each of Dean's thrusts. He also found that he could force pleasured sounds to tumble from Dean's lips with the tightening of his inner muscles, squeezing and releasing them around Dean's cock whenever Dean wasn't expecting it, nearly making a game of it. Whenever Dean would quicken his thrusts, his look too serious, his muscles tightening and his face flushing, Sam would clamp down around him just to hear him groan, to see his head lull back and each time his own dick would pulse and twitch, his body responding, wanting to cause Dean more pleasure to elicit more rapturous cries to fall from his lips. He slowly began to understand the way Dean would turn around and do the same to him, teasing him until every muscle in his body was locked, his back arched, his dick throbbing needily and leaking precome steadily. "Please... Dean, please..." he grunted breathlessly.

Dean's heart sang at the pleas. He gathered Sam closer, one hand under his ass, the other gripping his shoulder, and started to fuck him harder, giving him as much as he could take. His muscles strained, his body was coated with sweat, he moved faster, moans and grunts breaking from him. "Now. Now Sam," he ordered, bucking against Sam, grinding his hips hard as his back stiffened. "Now, come with me," he growled, his hand slipping between them to squeeze Sam's wet, hard cock as he came hard and fast inside him, shouting Sam's name. 

Sam gasped and bucked back against Dean, his fingertips dug into Dean's shoulder and scalp and his muscles tensed, his body straining. His face and body were flushed a deep crimson and Goosebumps broke out over his flesh, pebbling his nipples. His breaths panted and his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He gasped Dean's name softly before he clenched his jaw and a low groan tore from his throat. His back arched as he started to come when Dean touched his throbbing dick, his spunk wetting his lover's hand. 

"Yeah... that's it, give me everything you have. Everything," Dean crooned, still fucking Sam, still milking his cock. The darkness inside him had receded and it felt good, being here with just Sam, not having to control the part of him that kept wanting to and sometimes did take over. "That's it," he whispered, kissing Sam and collapsing down over him.

***

Dean woke early, around five a.m., and was ready to get up but his efforts to wake Sam were unsuccessful. He guessed it was unreasonable to expect anyone to keep him company at that time, while it was still dark, so he merely spooned behind Sam on the rug in front of the fireplace, and watched the dying embers. He didn't think he'd fall asleep again, but he was wrong.

Hours later, when he woke again, there was bright sunshine lighting up the entire room. He nuzzled Sam's neck. "Wakey, wakey. Didn't you mention you had to get some painting done today?" he asked, sliding his hand up along Sam's side. Other than a muffled complaint, there were no other sounds from Sam.

Dean sat up, a little surprised by the slight dampness of his hand. "Sam?" He looked down and started to shake his shoulder when he noticed the light sheen clinging to Sam's skin like a cold sweat. Only there seem to be tiny little red dots all over him. Dean looked at his palm and saw it was smeared with red. "The hell?"

Rolling Sam onto his back, he inspected his chest. He had to be wrong. The guy couldn't have sweated blood out of his pores. No way. He reached for the pajama top Sam had discarded and used it to wipe the wetness from his chest and sonovabitch, it was blood.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean looked down his own body, and he saw the same red stains were smeared across his chest, where he'd pressed up against Sam. "Sam!" he said, shaking him more earnestly and noticing not only that Sam was bleeding out of his pores, but that he was really pale and that there were dark shadows under his eyes. 

Sam groaned and lifted a hand weakly off the floor, batting away Dean's. "Don't," he complained sleepily, "I'm tired. Ya gotta let me sleep," he grumbled groggily and rolled back over to face the dying fire. A shiver racked Sam's body but he was too exhausted to reach for a blanket or to complain to Dean and ask for one, so he simply pulled his legs in, curling into a tight ball. 

"No. Sam, listen to me. Sam!" Dean shook him again. "I think you're sick. Something’s wrong with you. There’s.... there's blood," he said.

Sam's lips curled into a sleepy smile, "Then just make love to me again and I'll be all bet--" he broke off mid-sentence, his brow furrowed with confusion. "Blood?" He asked. He struggled to pry his eyes open and found he could only manage to get them to mere slits, gazing at Dean through his lashes. "What're you talking about?" He asked and shook his head. "I'm so tired... I wanna go back to sleep, Dean." 

"Lemme get you to bed, and then let's think about whether to call the paramedics." Dean knew Sam wouldn't want anyone to see him undressed so he thought he could get his pajamas on him and then make the call. "C'mon," he said, lifting him up to his feet. When Sam almost fell back to the floor, Dean hefted him up into his arms and carried him.

Once they were in the bedroom he set Sam down on the bed and got him fresh underwear and pajamas. "Okay, let's get these on you and then I'm calling."

Sam lifted a hand to stop him a look of deep frustration on his face, "No, please," he begged. "No clothes and no paramedics," he slurred almost drunkenly. "Just come here and lay with me. Hold me. I'm just going to sleep a while and then I'll be fine. I always am, remember?" 

"No I don't remember. It might feel like we've known each other forever, but we haven't. And I may not know much but I know bleeding out of your pores is not normal." Bending over the bed he started to work a pair of pajama bottoms up Sam's leg. They'd probably take his briefs off at any hospital anyway so he pushed the underwear aside. "Come on, lift," he said, tugging them up to Sam's waist. "There." He pulled the sheets up over Sam, then pulled a pair of Sam's jeans on himself and reached for the phone. Staring at it, he frowned. "What's the number?" It was there, in his mind but just out of reach.

Sam groaned and reached for the phone. He'd been almost back to sleep again. Prying the receiver out of Dean's hands, he placed it back onto its cradle. "No ambulance, no paramedics, no hospital," he muttered sleepily. "Father didn't act this crazy when he found me in the field," he mumbled, not even knowing what he was saying. His eyes slipped closed again and he sighed softly. "And how do you know it isn't normal for someone to bleed out of their pores? Just because you haven't," Sam asked, a smug smile curling his lips. "Come get in bed with me, kiss me and hold me. Tell me that you love me..." 

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and did what Sam asked, kissed him. "I love you, but I'm not gonna let you fall into a coma or whatever. Gimme the number, Sam, or I'm just gonna go down the street and knock at every door."

Sam sighed heavily in resignation and marginally opened his eyes to search Dean's worried face. "Whatever you are, you're definitely not malevolent by nature," he mused. "Fine, if you must do something, then go to the church and ask for Father Fabian. He has taken care for me for as he has for as long as I can remember, he'll know what to do." 

"Sam just give me the numb..." Dean trailed off when Sam's eyes closed again and he went lax. "Sam?" He felt his heart clench with fear. He didn't try to wake Sam again, but went straight for the door. Once outside, he ran barefooted through the snow, heading for the church. He couldn't help noticing how strong he felt, how full of energy. The snow didn't hurt at all, didn't even make him feel numb. The contrast between his state and Sam's niggled at his mind. He couldn't work out that mystery, not now he decided, lengthening his strides.

When he got to the church, he desperately looked around for someone, anyone he could send inside with a message for Father Fabian. There was no one around. Dean paced away and came back, worried about wasted minutes. Cupping his mouth he started to shout, "Father Fabian. Father Fabian!" After several more useless calls he knew his voice was not carrying through the thick walls or the door of the church.

Steeling himself, he ran the few steps to the door and tugged it open. The excruciating pain at the bottom of his feet and in his palm were accompanied by the unpleasant smell of burning flesh. "Father Fabian!" 

Seeing a movement near the altar, Dean called again. "Father Fabian, hurry. Sam needs help," he shouted, then unable to bear the pain he backed out of the church and immediately stepped off the sidewalk and into a pile of snow. Dropping to his knees, he pushed his hand in the cool snow and looked up, hoping Father Fabian or someone else would come out.

Father Fabian's eyes widened at Dean's shouted words and he spent little time gathering a few items before heading for the door and reaching for his long coat. He was still tying the sash around his waist as he stepped outside the church. Lifting his gaze, he scanned the area for the man that had come in with news that Sam needed him. His dark gaze finally fell on a young man that he hadn't personally seen before but had heard about from the nuns and some others who'd met him. "Dean?" He inquired as he headed across the street to where the young man stood. "What is it, what's happened to Sam?" He asked as he made his way over.

Reaching Dean, Father Fabian took in his appearance and his eyes widened once again taken aback at the young man's state of undress in such chilly temperatures.   
"You are going to catch your death standing out here with no shirt or shoes on," he scolded with a shake of his head. "Come," he said as he hurried toward Sam's cottage, "let's get you somewhere warm and you can fill me in on Samuel along the way."

"Um yeah, forget about me, I'm fine," Dean replied. He walked alongside the priest but kept quite a bit of distance between them. "Sam woke up exhausted. Like he can barely stay awake. He's got... I think he's bleeding out of his pores. He wouldn't let me call an ambulance but maybe you can talk him into it. He asked for you."

The priest frowned incredulously, "Bleeding from his pores?" He echoed and shook his head. "No that can't be, there is only one other record of that ever happening and that was due to the person being so taxed... under such burden...no, there is no way," he responded though at the last of his words he lifted a fisted hand to his mouth and bit at the side as his eyes lifted heavenward. The priest quickly genuflected and shook his head as they reached Sam's cottage. "Let us pray that is not what it is," Father Fabian whispered almost flatly as he knocked on the front door then pulled it open. 

"Samuel," Father Fabian called as he entered, "it's me, Father Fabian, I've come to check on you, your friend Dean came to get me. He claims you sent for me, is everything alright?" 

No answer met the priest's words, the house as silent as the grave. 

"He's in the bedroom," Dean said, walking ahead. "Sam... Sammy?" He stood next to the bed and pushed the hair off Sam's forehead. "He's not warm but he... He keeps falling into this deep sleep. And the blood," he said, pulling the white sheet down a little. "We need to get him to the hospital."

Father Fabian frowned and grunted in acknowledgement, though he simply sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sam, facing him. He reached inside his coat and pulled a flask from his inside pocket, unscrewing the cap. Turning the bottle over onto his fingertips, getting them wet, he reached out and touched Sam's chest with his fingers. Sam's flesh smoked and sizzled, making the priest cringe and quickly draw back his hand. 

"Samuel needs to be taken to the church at once!" Father Fabian announced. 

"What are you doing!" Dean yelled, putting his hand on the priest's shoulder to prevent him from hurting Sam again. "The hell are you pouring on him," he reached for the bottle and twisting it out of Father Fabian's hand, set it down on the nightstand. "You aren't a doctor. Call one."

The priest's attention turned to Dean. "No hospitals!" He argued. "You need to leave, get out and leave Samuel to me." Standing up, he grabbed the flask off the night stand and sprinkled more of the contents on Sam, watching worriedly as his skin continued to smoke and burn, sizzling and bubbling. He genuflected and lifted his face heavenward, "Help us," he beseeched softly. 

Dean roughly knocked the container out of the man's hand and was a bit startled by the speed with which the old priest blocked his punch. He would have tossed the priest out on his ass, if the man hadn't started explaining why this wasn't something a hospital could help with. Some of what the priest said resonated with Dean for unknown reasons, but it didn't mean he liked it. Still, this was who Sam trusted and had asked for. 

Stepping aside, he watched as Father Fabian called for help in getting Sam to the church.

* * *

Dressed so he wouldn't draw attention, Dean paced the sidewalk outside the church. When Father Fabian had told him it would be best if he didn't come with them, he hadn't argued. On the other hand, he hadn't stayed at the cottage either. He might not be able to be inside the church, but he would damned well be close by.

The men who'd come to help Father Fabian hadn't all been priests. In fact there had only been one other priest, but there were several guys who looked like regular Joes. Not well dressed like the tourists, not skiers, but more like construction workers. Something about them resonated with Dean as well, but he couldn't put his finger on it. 

Now as he walked back and forth, he started to remember things. Ordering beers at bars and talking with men just like the ones that had helped carry Sam out of the cottage. Leaning against a gorgeous black Impala and knocking back some drinks or spreading maps on her bonnet. Dean ran his hand through his hair. More. He wanted to remember more. He'd been comfortable... at home with men just like the guys in church, he'd trusted them. That should put him at ease.

Yet it didn't.

Men like that. Men just like that had accused him of being Asmodeus. They had tried to kill him. It made no sense. Were they friend or foe?

He heard a shout, Sam's scream of pain, which was impossible because when he'd shouted for the priest to come out way earlier, no one had heard him through the walls and heavy doors. So how could he hear Sam? Was this even real? They wouldn't hurt him, would they? 

*

Sam's head slowly rolled as he slowly opened his eyes and groggily peered up at the priest hovering over him with a ready smile.

"Samuel," Father Fabian greeted, "How are you feeling?"

"Mmmm, sleepy," Sam replied hoarsely, "weak."

"Well, just lay back and hold still, Samuel, these men are here to help you," the priest explained as the other men in the room stepped up. 

Sam's wide eyes snapped from one stranger to the other and he started to try to sit up only to find that he couldn't, that he had been strapped to the table upon which he lay. The walls and floor around him were peppered in drawings, strange script and markings that shouldn't have made sense and yet somewhere in the back of Sam's mind, in a place that he was unable to see clearly, he knew the meaning to everyone. "Ff-Father?" He stammered anxiously. 

"Shshsh, hush child, all will be well after this," the priest comforted. He patted Sam's shoulder as the other men surrounded him. They held pitchers in their hands and started to dump the contents along Sam's body, from his head to foot, unconcerned that blood slid down Sam's arms and legs as his skin sizzled and hissed, burning and bubbling up from his body. 

Sam's head tilted back as he gulped in deep breaths, attempting to hold in his cries of pain, his hands curling into fight fists where they were bound against the table. His body tensed and trembled as he grit his teeth, his eyes rolling up in his head a moment before his lips parted and a blood curdling scream ripped from his throat and echoed in the church.

Father Peter took Sam's hand in both of his and held it tight. "You know, we could allow the taint to work out of his system naturally," he said. "It will take no more than a week."

"No, we can't allow him to wait that long. He's starting to remember and the lethargic state is only slowing that process," Father Fabian argued softly, his brow crinkled in concern. His attention snapped up to the others, "Can you people not hurry up?" He demanded, hating that they were having to cause Sam so much pain. 

One of the hunters approached and started to once again pour the holy water on Sam, starting at his head and moving down his body.

Others chanted, "... Holy Father, deliver Samuel from evil, destroy the taint that has infected him, obliterate it, cleanse him..."

Father Peter dipped his fingers in the consecrated oil and started drawing symbols with it, on Sam's forehead, at the base of his throat, over his heart, then in his palms and on his feet.

Sam panted with his pain, his eyes wild with fear and panic. "Please, please let me go," he begged, throat convulsing as he swallowed hard. "Don't do this," he pleaded and screamed again as the blessed oil burned into his skin, "No, no, no, please..."

*

As if the screaming wasn't enough to drive Dean crazy with worry, he started to smell burnt flesh. Knowing firsthand what that felt like, and having seen what the priest did to Sam at the cottage, suddenly he had a good idea of the tortures they were putting Sam through. 

He had enough. Unless Sam ordered him to leave him there, he was getting him out.

He marched to the door, grabbed the handle, his eyes almost rolling back as his flesh burned, tugged the door open and ran inside. Down the long center aisle, he could see they had Sam at the altar, tied to some gurney or something. He was in thin cotton pajama pants and his body was steaming... burning.

Every long step that Dean took was excruciating. His feet burned right through his shoe soles. He felt like the skin on his face and hands was stretched tight and was getting hot, like he had a bad sunburn. Still he walked through the place, his eyes hurting when he looked at gleaming crosses or certain paintings on the wall.

"Enough!" he shouted as he got near.

A few men moved to stand between those performing the cleansing and the man about to interfere. 

"You don't understand and we don't have time to explain. Sam will be fine--"

Dean threw a punch and shoved the other guy away, breaking through. He roughly shoved Father Fabian away and started to undo the restraints.

Sam lifted his head and looked up at Dean, tears staining his cheeks, his face flushed and dotted with smoking areas of sizzling skin. "Dean," he croaked weakly before allowing his head to fall back against the pillowed section of the table. "Hurts...so much..." he murmured hoarsely. 

"Get. The fuck. Away from him," Dean shouted as another guy came to stop him. He undid the restraints at Sam's waist then started to rip off the ankle holds when two guys tried to grabbed each of his arms.

"Father Fabian, his feet," someone called out.

Dean didn't have time for the bullshit. He didn't pull his punches and wouldn't be surprised if he broke a jaw or two. He didn't say anymore, didn't give any explanations, didn't waste time. Once he had Sam free, he lifted him up in his arms, swung him around to knock one of the men away, and started heading up the aisle. His shoes peeled off his feet. Gritting his teeth, he refused to shout, but started to run, needing to get out of there before he fell.

One of the men moved into a side room and returned with a rifle.

"Not here. You might hit Sam," someone shouted.

Dean grabbed the door handle. "Fuckkkk...." he pushed it open and walked out, his hand now blistered and burned. 

Once he stepped onto the sidewalk, he started to run, heading for the shortcut through the snow. "I got ya now, Sam. Gonna be alright, gonna be okay," he promised.

Sam whimpered softly and turned slightly further into Dean's embrace, burying his face against the side of the man's neck. He closed his eyes and drew in the scent that was Dean's alone, earthy and woodsy and musky. "Just take me home," he mumbled softly against the tender flesh where his mouth was pressed, at the juncture between Dean's neck and shoulder. 

"Almost there," Dean answered, holding Sam closer and trying to shield his already wet body from the cold. "I shouldn't have let them take you. I'm sorry Sam. So damned sorry," he said, stepping over a root and looking up, checking the distance to the cottage.

"I... don't... understand it...." Sam mumbled wearily. His grip around Dean tightened as much as he was able, fingertips clawing at the material of the jacket that Dean wore. 

"I don't either," Dean said. "Important thing is you're out of there." He marched through the snow, no barefooted since his shoes had melted off him in the church, and finally reached the front door. He'd left it unlocked so he easily got it open and kicked it shut behind him. Very gently, he placed Sam on the bed. "Safe now," he whispered, kissing him lightly.

He needed to get Sam into dry clothes, but he wanted to be sure he was okay. "Talk to me," he said.

Sam gave a weak smile. "What do you want me to say?" He asked, holding very still on the bed. "Hurts..." he mumbled and swallowed hard, closing his eyes. "And I'm still sleepy. "Lay with me," he pleaded, opening his eyes to stare beseechingly up at Dean, "please?" 

"I gotta get you out of your clothes." Dean quickly stripped Sam's pajama pants and underwear off, and used a towel to dry off his body. He got some sweat pants on him, then pulled him up to help him put on a long sleeved sweat shirt. "I don't like this, that you're weak." Though he would have suggested the hospital again, some of the things Father Fabian said about why they couldn't go to a hospital stuck with him. 

"It's not as bad as before, I told you this morning all I needed was some sleep. I really think if you would have just let me... just laid with me and held me," he smiled adoringly up at Dean, "I would have been fine." He laid back in the bed and stifled a yawn then reached for Dean, "Now stop bein' my Mother and come lay with me."

Dean gave him a long look, then walked out of the room. Going to the front door, he locked it. He had a feeling he ought to do something else, something more. Deciding it was paranoia, he headed back to the bedroom, and when Sam made some place for him, he got on the bed and put his arm around Sam, pulling him close. "Sam, I... I don't think you're what you think you are. You're something more," he said in a low voice.

Sam cuddled up against Dean and laid with his head pillowed against Dean's chest, eyes slipping contently closed. "Mmmmmm," Sam hummed, lips curled into a smile, "You're more too. I love you," he mumbled, words whisper soft and slurred as sleep began to tug Sam under.

"More what, though?" Dean asked, turning his hand and looking at his palm. His skin was still red, but the blisters and blood were gone. 

A loud boom sounded against the front door to Sam's cottage, one that was hard enough to shake the rafters and send paintings crashing off the hallway walls and onto the floor. 

"Samuel, open up!" came Father Fabian's voice. "We're only trying to help you, Samuel!" 

"God damn it..." Dean leaned his head against the headboard and shouted. "He doesn't want your kind of help. Leave us alone." 

Two more loud bangs sounded through the house followed by gunshots and then the front door to Sam's home was being thrown open wide, the door crashing back against the wall behind it, carelessly destroying the wreath that hung upon it.

The men stormed into the house, converging on the bedroom, shotguns raised and flasks of holy water at the ready which they flung at Dean and Sam repeatedly.

"He is the abomination that has touched Samuel!" one man shouted.

"He must be destroyed!" shouted another.

The liquid burned Dean as surely as consecrated ground had. He forcefully rolled Sam away to the other side of the small bed. "Hit the ground," he said, getting out of bed, arms raised, his gaze meeting each man's as he assessed his chances. He'd been eaten practically to the bone by wolves, guns didn't scare him. "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I will," he warned, using his sleeve to wipe off the liquid dripping off him.

He could tell they weren't going to go, that they wouldn't leave them alone. "Why are you doing this? Sam's your friend," he said, calculating his moves.

"Don't you fret about Sam, the priest there'll worry about Sam. You oughtta just be worryin' about you," said one of the men with a shotgun trained on Dean said. 

"I will care for Samuel as I always have," Father Fabian declared. "You cannot have him, O' foul unclean spirit!" 

"And what if Sam doesn't want you _taking care_ of him anymore, if you can call pouring acid on him that, you sick sonovabitch," Dean snarled, taking a step away from the bed, giving himself room to maneuver.

Father Fabian blanched, "That was _not_ acid," he gasped and quickly genuflected. "It was holy water. He is only affected by it because of _you_! He needs to be cleansed of your foulness, then the water will not hurt him."

Sam groaned and lifted his head up off the floor, looking around at everyone through groggily heavy lidded eyes. "Dean?" He croaked softly.

"Stay down," Dean said sharply. He didn't know whether to believe the priest so he decided to think about it later. "He said 'no' and you just kept hurting him," he pointed out. "That doesn't seem very... sanctuary-like," he added, unable to find the right words. Just as the priest started to answer, Dean made his move. He elbowed the man closest to him in the face, then grabbed another guy's rifle, using it to wheel the man around and shoving him into the others. At close quarters, their rifles would be useless. The trick would be to avoid the handguns.

Sam started to rise as he heard the commotion, lifting shakily up onto his hands and knees. 

Father Fabian's and Father Peter's eyes widened at the chaos and they immediately moved to do what they could to help. They began tossing holy water on Dean in an attempt to weaken the beast and allow the others to get the upper hand. 

"Arghhh," Dean shouted as the water burned clear through him, but he didn't stop fighting. Someone's fist landed two consecutive blows to his face. He focused his rage on the guy and started beating him, ignoring the others who were also striking him. When the guy started to slide to the ground, Dean tossed him at Father Fabian and reached for a handgun that had fallen to the ground.

Hearing Dean scream Sam reached for the side of the bed, forcing himself up and onto his feet. Turning, he took in the demolition scene before him with wide horrified eyes. "Stop it!" He shouted, "Stop it, all of you!"

But no one seemed to be paying him any attention. Sam's jaw clenched angrily when his gaze fell on the burn marks marring Dean's flesh, never mind that Dean had said that they would heal, that his own had nearly healed.

Thunder rolled through the sky loud enough to set off car alarms around the neighborhood and the entire cottage began to quake violently.

"I said, leave. him. alone!" Sam shouted, his voice suddenly amplified, its volume blowing out all the windows of the house.

Dean's fingers had just closed around the gun when the windows shattered and it slipped from his fingers. He pushed his hand down on the ground and started to stand when the butt of a rifle was jammed into his back and sent him sprawling. When he rolled over, the barrel was aimed at his face. 

He tilted his head back, getting an upside down view of Sam. If he was going to die, he couldn't have a better last view.

Father Peter took his hands off his ears. "Samuel. Listen to me. Things aren't as they appear. Father Fabian and I have taken care of you for a long time, trust us to take care of this."

Sam's eyes tightened as he stared at Father Peter, "Leave. Dean. alone.," he repeated, "Let him go," he reiterated, a slow calculating smile curling his lips, "I _command_ it," he said his voice hushed and deadly.

"We can't let him go, boy," the hunter with the rifle said. "He's a killer. You're not the first, or the last that he tricks into sleeping with him, falling for him. Don't let his pretty face fool ya..."

Dean slowly started to sit up.

"He's killing you. Samuel if you just wait until you remember everything," Father Fabian said, reaching for Sam.

Sam's expression hardened, a dark scowl forming. The electricity in the house began to flash on and off, affecting every light, every fan, every fixture and appliance. In the flashes between light and darkness, there appeared to be the shape of large wings unfurling as shadows on the wall behind Sam. 

In the next instant the men lost hold of their guns as they floated above them and turned around, facing those who had been holding them or training them on Dean. 

"I remember Father," Sam muttered quietly, "And I know exactly what Dean is and what I am doing. Now get out of my house," he hissed. 

"What the fuck... Father Fabian?"

The priest waved toward the door. "Everyone out... go on." He waited until the others were out of the room. "Samuel, come talk to me later. Please," he said, bowing his head and backing out of the room.

The front door slammed shut. 

On his feet now, Dean slowly approached Sam but something made him keep his distance. His eyes were glued on the shadow on the wall, his heart was slamming against his chest. "Sam?" he cocked his head.

Sam continued to stare toward the door where the others had disappeared for another moment or two until he knew they were definitely gone. His attention swung to Dean and, despite what his heart wanted to do, he found it hard to cross the distance between them. "Dean," Sam murmured. "Is... were they're telling me the truth?" He inquired tentatively. 

"Which part?" Dean didn't flinch away from Sam's stare.

"Any of it, all of it," Sam responded. "That you did something to me, tricked me into falling for you. That you do the same with everyone. Tell me, Dean, how many other virgins have you lied to and said that you loved just to sleep with them? Did they ever find out your real interest in them before it was too late or did they die thinking you actually loved them?"

Dean's head snapped back, like he'd been physically struck. He searched Sam's face and couldn't help feeling a little bitter about what he saw in them. When he tried to speak, he was surprised to find a lump had developed in the back of his throat. "Why don't you ask me something I know the answer to? Why don't you ask if I love you?" 

Sam's eyes tightened and his head tilted slightly to once side as he weighed the idea in his mind. "Better yet I ask if you love me or if you are indeed trying to kill me, or perhaps that is your twisted idea of love?"

"Yeah, I love you. No, I'm not trying to kill you. I got you out of that church because it sounded like _they_ were killing you. I want you to go to a hospital, but..." he pointed at the shadow wings, "I don't know if... I don't know what to do. I don't want you to die, you gotta believe me," he said, his voice hoarse. 

Dean took a few steps away and turned around, putting his hand on his temple, he closed his eyes and thought hard. "I remember being with someone. I remember people just like them," he pointed at the door, "barging in and calling me Asmodeus. They were wrong, I'm not Asmodeus, but I don't know what I am. Stuff is coming back to me, stuff that doesn't make sense. I can't answer more of your questions. I can't even answer my own."

Sam's eyes slowly lowered from Dean's face and he nodded dejectedly. Another flash of light lit the house before everything stilled and the shadow disappeared from the wall. A second later Sam fell, collapsing forward in an unconscious heap on the floor. 

Crossing the room, Dean went to Sam. Once again, he picked him up, this time setting him down on the sofa. He wasn't sure what to do. He had no one to call, no one who could help. All he could do was hope that whatever Sam was, it meant that like himself, he would heal and overcome whatever was happening to him. 

Within minutes, Dean had a pillow under Sam's head and covered him with a blanket. With the windows blown out, cold air was coming in. Dean went and shut all of the shutters around the house. At least most of the glass was on the outside of the building, but he cleaned up any that had fallen on the inside. He built the fire up and checked on Sam. There was no response from him, but he was still breathing.

Feeling useless, Dean paced for a while. Eventually, when night fell, he did all the things he'd seen Sam do in the evenings. Turned on the Christmas tree and plugged in the lights that threaded through the greens decorating the mantel lights. Lowered the house lights. Put on some carols. The thing of it was, even though the place looked as warm and cozy as ever, it felt empty. 

Dean sat on the lazy boy across from the sofa, just watching Sam sleep. He'd seen the look in his eyes, the accusation. The disappointment. It hurt more than anything those priests and those... those hunters had ever done to him. Elbows resting on his thighs, Dean leaned forward and clasped his hands. 

Time passed. A lot of it, and yet there was no change. He closed his eyes and searched his mind for his past. A past that eluded him. He needed answers, for himself, and for Sam.

When none came, Dean found himself staring at Sam a little differently. A little hungrily. Thoughts of kissing Sam awake, of touching him until he moaned, of making him respond instead of laying there in a dead sleep haunted Dean's mind. _Want me. Plead with me. Beg me._ He started weaving scenarios in his mind. God, the more he thought of it, the more he ached to make them come true. 

Sam's eyes darted behind closed lids and his lips parted on a sigh of breath. "Please," he breathed softly as his body began to writhe, hips cantering upward and grinding back. His legs fell open, one leg tumbling off the side of the couch and onto the floor. A hand slipped up his chest, dragging slowly upward as his back arched wantonly, his breaths coming a little faster, panting softly from between parted lips.

"Dean," Sam groaned softly and hissed in a pleasured breath, "oh Dean..."

Dean moved so fast, he had to be a mere blur. On one knee next to the couch, his gaze roved hotly up Sam's leg to the juncture of his thigh, then swept up to his face. His lips were so soft, so red. The way he was moving restlessly, every part of him seeming to search for Dean, it had Dean breathless. "You still want me? They didn't change your mind?" he asked, hoarsely, his hand slowly creeping from Sam's knee up his warm thigh. 

Sam's passion glazed eyes slid open and immediately met Dean's as he reached for his lover, gripping Dean's bicep and pulling him in closer, his body undulating up against Dean's. "Kiss me...hold me..." he whispered. "Love me...take me..."

"Whatever you want. It's what I want," Dean whispered, slowly rising and then lowering himself over Sam, reaching down and pulling Sam's leg off the floor and helping him hook it around Dean's waist. The way Sam was moving under him sent head flooding through Dean. Moaning, he lowered his mouth over Sam's, dipping his tongue inside. Sam was so hot, so sweet, so willing... so needy. Dean's hunger spread like wildfire. His hands roamed over Sam, exploring him, wanting him so many ways. He moved his hips against Sam's, groaning at how hard Sam already felt against him. "Tell me you don't believe them. Tell me I'm not a killer," Dean said, between kisses, his movements becoming more desperate as doubts crept into his own mind.

Sam's hands clawed their way up and back down Dean's back as he rocked his hips underneath Dean. His hands grasped the hem of the shirt that Dean wore, pulling it upward along his body and throwing it away. "Yesssss," he breathed, lengthening the 's' sound as he ground his groin up against Dean's. His neck arched and the short blunt nails of his fingertips clawed their way across the smooth skin of Dean's back. "More," he begged softly. "Want more... want all of you..." he whispered thickly. Pushing his head down against the pillow, Sam looked up at Dean, his eyes wide and hot with desire. "I dunno what to believe," he admitted gently. "But I know how I feel, I know I love you..." 

"That's good enough for me." Dean brought his mouth down hard over Sam's, kissing him fiercely, possessively. Needing more, he cupped the back of Sam's head, lifting him slightly, holding him in place as he moved his mouth against Sam's and deepened the kiss. He was on fire. On fire for this man. If he had to be accurate, he'd say his heart was on fire for Sam. But the rest of his body, it burned to make Sam want him, to yearn for him, to crave him, to ache for him. As if on auto pilot, while the part of him that loved Sam made love to Sam, his hands and body teased and tortured, pleasured but withheld, raising the stakes, forcing Sam to pull at him and to plead with his body, with his desperate movements and sharp breaths. 

Sam groaned and arched up against Dean needily, his body writhing beneath Dean's as he vigorously returned the kiss, his head tilting from side to side. Their teeth knocked together sporadically throughout the frenzied kiss, tongues tangling and dueling. His fingertips dug into Dean's flesh as he clung tightly to him and tore at the remainder of the clothes blocking his ability to touch Dean's bare flesh. 

"Want you... need you..." Sam breathed huskily.

"Want you. Need you. Just like this," Dean answered, raising up and shedding his clothes.

* * * 

When morning came, Dean woke and found himself on the lazy boy, with Sam asleep in his lap. The night was a blur of sex, desperate whispers and bodies coming together. He'd taken Sam on the couch, on the floor, and then on the lazy boy. He shifted a little and confirmed he'd at least pulled out of Sam before they'd fallen asleep. 

It had been good. So damned good. Satisfying. He could live like this forever. Forget everything else, just live on sex with Sam.

He'd started to smile as he swept his hand across Sam's bare chest when the thought that he might not be hungry or thirsty, but Sam... he was pretty sure it had been over twenty four hours since Sam last put anything in his mouth, slammed into him. Sam was sick, too tired to do anything but sleep. Except when Dean wanted sex. Then Sam came around. 

"Sam?" Dean spoke low, but shook him. "Sammy?" Just as before, Sam was sleeping soundly.

Cold blossomed in the pit of Dean's stomach. He was full. He was strong. His wounds all healed quickly, unlike when he'd been out in the cold and alone. Sam... sex with Sam had rid him of the numbness and brought him alive. It was the best thing that happened to him. But Sam... Sam who'd been healthy, who'd been strong, he was a shell of his former self. Those people... his gut told him, those people had been telling the truth. 

Without realizing it, Dean closed his arms around Sam and held him so tight that if Sam had been awake, he'd have been uncomfortable. "Please no. Please no. Please," Dean kept whispering, pressing his cheek against Sam's shoulder, trying to deny the truth. He was not Asmodeus, so how could this be?

A rush of memories swept through him. Learning to shoot. Learning to make silver bullets. Going into churches with his father, getting holy water. Later, when he was much older, making holy water. Killing things. Things that hurt people. Performing rituals, like the priests and hunters... he'd been a hunter!

His heart started to race. He couldn't be evil. He was a hunter of evil things. It was the family business. Yeah... Hope lifted his heart, until he couldn't reconcile the fact that his flesh burned when he touched holy water just like the flesh of the evil things he'd put down. But so had Sam's. Sam was a good man. Those priests hadn't been trying to put him down. They said ...

"No...no Goddamn it, doesn't make sense," he said on the verge of a sob. He felt Sam move in his arms, felt a little pressure over his cock and his mind sped away from him again. Need filled him, only this time when Sam stirred and demanded to be kissed, Dean felt terror in place of the thrill he was used to. Pushing up, he put his shoulder under Sam's, bore most of his weight and started walking him to the couch. 

Sam staggered and nearly toppled over forward, his body leaning heavily on Dean's. He moaned and whimpered softly as he reached for Dean with his free arm. "Take me," he murmured, "I'm all yours..."

"Sam..." When Sam staggered past the couch, Dean got a better grip on him and decided to put him to bed. His hot breaths, the pleas he whispered in his ear were torture. "Please, baby, please stop," Dean whispered, knowing damned well it was a vicious circle. His need triggered Sam's. 

Sam sucked in a breath and struggled to lift his head, his eyes cracking open to mere passion glazed slits. His brow furrowed as he looked at Dean worriedly, "What is it? What's wrong?" He inquired weakly, his head lulling back as though his neck lacked the strength to hold it up. "You don't want me..." Sam whispered dejectedly.

"I wish. I want you like I need to breathe. Come on, keep walking," Dean said, prepared to carry Sam if he needed to. 

Sam's head lulled forward and he staggered, clinging onto Dean and leaning heavily on him, his knees going weak often and nearly sending him to the floor.

Dean didn't hesitate to pick him up. Course that brought Sam's body in closer contact with his. With every breath, he took in Sam's clean, tantalizing scent. With Sam snuggling up against him, he found his mouth was only inches away from Sam's. It was so damned hard to concentrate, to keep from kissing him when he yearned to brush his lips against Sam's, to kiss him again the way he had all night long.

Sam moaned softly and clung to Dean, want coursing through his body though at least it wasn't quite as strong as it had been a few moments ago. He sighed as Dean laid him down against cool sheets though he clung to Dean, unwilling to let him go. "No, come with me, lay with me, don't leave me," he begged tugging Dean into the bed beside him.

"Lemme get you something to eat," Dean answered, though he'd been pulled down onto the bed so he was sitting on it. His mouth grazed Sam's and then he was kissing Sam, pulling him up in his arms. _Want me._ Yes, Sam wanted him, needed him. And Dean couldn't resist, couldn't fight it, couldn't remember why he'd even want to. "Love you," he whispered, once again starting to work Sam's pajama top off. "Need you," he mumbled, slapping his hand onto the headboard. Just like that, pain cut into his palm so sharp, he jerked his head up and pulled away. Turning his hand over, he saw the cross burned into his palm. It was from the carving on the headboard. 

His gaze shifted to Sam, looking up at him, lips parted... ready to let him have anything he wanted, then back to his palm. Shutting his eyes, Dean abruptly got off the bed. "See this?" he demanded, opening his eyes and rounding on Sam, showing him his palm. "They're right. They were right. I am killing you. Being with me, it's killing you," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't know... I don't understand, but it's true. It's true Sammy. We can't do this... you can't let me," he added, unsure whether one or both of them would have the power to resist, only that they had to. 

Sam's brow furrowed as his glazed eyes moved from Dean's hand to his eyes and back. He shook his head, "You're not hurting me," he argued and reached out for Dean. "You're loving me," he corrected then rolled onto his side in an attempt to stretch far enough and grab Dean, to pull him back over to him. "Please..." he begged.

 _Please._ The word that usually made his heart sing, the word he often begged Sam for, the word that held as much power over him as his needs held over Sam, suddenly felt rife with danger. Pulling out of Sam's grasp and seeing Sam stretching his arm out, pleading, Dean found out how hard it was to say 'no' to Sam. "Don't Sam, please. It'll go away now," he whispered, on the verge of stepping toward Sam.

Dean looked up. He could do this. He had to do this, if he didn't want to lose Sam. Biting his lip, he looked down into his palm and pressed his thumb hard over the blistered mark of the cross, grunting out his pain. One step at a time, he walked backwards to the door, tears stinging his eyes, but stubbornly refusing to give in to his evil nature.

Sam gulped in breaths as he rolled back over in the bed, watching as Dean left him, abandoned him there alone in his room. "Dean, no, please don't go, don't leave me!" He called after him, the soft click of the door as it snipped closed his only reply.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed against the feelings and sensations that tumbled inside him even though slowly they were receding and becoming less of a distraction, allowing him to finally begin to sink down into the blissful arms of sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

A half hour later, Dean had a breakfast tray set up over Sam's lap. It had taken quite a lot of badgering, but at last, Sam was eating and drinking. Dean sat as far away from him as possible, trying not to watch him. Seeing the spoon dip between Sam's lips, or just the rise and fall of his chest, every small motion, tended to send Dean's mind spinning. It had him imagining himself in that bed with Sam, and that in turn had Sam asking him for the thing that was killing him. "Keep eating," he said, when he didn't hear the spoon touch the bowl for a while and surmised that Sam wasn't eating.

Sam was trying to eat, he was trying to drink and he wasn't at all certain why his mind kept going to lustful thoughts, but it was, and it had him wanting to toss breakfast aside and pull Dean into bed with him, on top of him, under him, he didn't care he just wanted the man's touch...

At Dean's order, he blinked away the images and quickly pulled the spoon up to his lips even though he wasn't at all certain that he'd gotten any of the soup on it. He looked up at Dean from under his brows as he continued to eat, his brow creasing with worry. What had happened, what was wrong? Was it something he'd done? "Dean?" He inquired tentatively. His tongue darted out, licking across his lips nervously, "I - I love you," he offered softly.

Unable to ignore that, Dean met Sam's gaze. His heart hurt as he spoke yet another truth. "I love you too. They say it's the ones you love who hurt you the worst. It really sucks when they're right." Tapping his hand on his thigh, he took a deep breath. "Please eat the rest. I need you to get your strength back." 

Sam slowly lowered his gaze dejectedly to the bowl, he stirred the soup a couple times but didn't bring any to his lips. Instead he continued to sneak glimpses at Dean curious and uncertain about what was wrong and what had happened to upset Dean so much. "Can you...please tell me what happened?" Sam begged softly. He shook his head, "I don't remember much after we came back to bed...did I do something wrong?"

"You don't remember? Anything?" Seeing Sam shake his head, Dean quickly reassured him, "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It's me." Dean got up and started to pace. "Those... hunters," he knew what they were now, "they were trying to take me. Then you got up and you stopped them. You had... well there were shadows on the wall behind you. Wings. You were furious with them and you shouted. Blew out all the windows. After they left, you asked if what they said about me was true. If I hurt you. I said no."

Stopping, Dean locked gazes with Sam. "I was wrong. I _am_ hurting you. Look at me. The longer I stay with you, the more we have sex... make love, the better I feel. The stronger. I... I want these... these things," he said gesturing. "And I know they're wrong, they're not _me._ I remember, I was a hunter, like those men. When I got lucky, you know, slept with someone... I didn't need to make them want me... beg for it. I don't know what happened. I can't remember, but I know I'm the reason you're sick. The reason holy water burns you like acid. I can't even touch the door of the church... walk in it, without burning. So it's me. I'm sorry Sam, if I'd known..." he shook his head, his eyes stinging.

Sam frowned, his brow furrowed with confusion and disbelief. It wasn't possible, was it? But then he thought about everything since Dean had come to stay with him, about how he had needed to have sex with Dean so badly right from the start, even though he'd never had any before. It went beyond just being attracted to Dean. It had been as though he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself. He thought back further to when he'd found Dean naked out in the snow, when he'd thought he'd found an angel that had fallen from his star. But he'd been wrong, Dean was no angel. 

"So what are you then?" Sam asked softly.

"I don't know." A muscle throbbed in Dean's jaw. "A monster. The kind I used to hunt."

Sam sighed and shook his head sadly as he grabbed each side of the tray and lifted it. Turning at the waist he set it aside and reached out for Dean instead as he moved over in the bed, making room for Dean to join him. "Dean, my love, come here," he murmured gently.

"No. I can't do that Sam." If he went to Sam, he might forget everything but the one thing the hunger within him was demanding. "I won't."

"Dean," Sam sighed, "I am trying to be patient with you because it is obvious that you are distraught," he explained slowly as though Dean were now addle-minded. "Now either you come here or I will get out of this bed and come to you," he warned, eyes tightening. "Which will it be?"

"Sam. I want to, believe me. But I _can't._ Not with how I feel inside," he said hoarsely, not bothering to hide the fires burning in his eyes. 

Sam nodded and turned his gaze away, "Alright," he muttered softly, so softly the word was barely audible. He scooted back down on the bed and rolled over onto his side facing away from Dean and squeezed his eyes closed against the desire to get out of bed and go to Dean, to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be alright that they would find a way. He refused to do any of that however, if Dean needed distance, then he would give him that. They said that sometimes you have to give until it hurts... Dean was right, it did suck when they were right.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered again, turning his back and walking to the window. He'd wait a little while before he took the tray away. Had to be in a state of mind where he wasn't thinking about how Sam smelled, how he felt in his arms. How warm his body was, how clingy he could be. "Oh God..." he gripped the back of a chair and bowed his head, fighting against his very nature.

* * * 

In the morning, and then again at lunch time, Dean had forced Sam to eat. Each time, walking away from him had been harder than the time before. Sam had been gaining some strength, but that only meant he could ask more vocally for a kiss or a touch, that he could beg, and that started the vicious cycle all over again.

Once Sam fell asleep again, Dean hung out in the living room, staring at the fire. Funny, how cold it felt in here now. 

Watching the flames, Dean tried to lose himself. To forget what he was, what he'd found in Sam and what he was doing to him. And right there, while he was trying to forget, the truth... all of it came rushing back to him, robbing him of everything. "No... no... no Goddamit, no," he shouted as even the slightest hope of making this right was pulverized.

* * * 

Sam awoke to a chill in the room, one that hadn't been there all the days prior. Dean had kept the fire going, keeping the room toasty for Sam so it was odd that the fire was out now. "Dean?" He called out only to get no answer. "Dean, come here and talk to me, please," he begged and again, there was no response.

With a frustrated sigh, Sam threw back the covers. Though he wasn't a hundred percent, he was feeling a lot less weak than he had in days. He stagger stepped out of the bedroom.

"Dean, where are you? It's cold," he mumbled softly as he walked down the hall and into the living room, noting the lack of one major item, Dean.

Brow furrowed in confusion Sam turned toward the telephone. He had no idea who to call but perhaps Father Fabian could help him. Maybe the priest knew where Dean was or had seen him leave and knew which direction Dean had gone.

Reaching for the receiver, Sam paused and pulled his hand back as his eyes focused on the blinking light on the answering machine. His mind sifted through a million and one different scenarios of what the message could mean, who it could be from. For some reason, he had this feeling in his gut that it wasn't good news. Biting his lip with worry, Sam pressed play, tensing as he heard Dean's voice. 

_"Sam. It's me. I remembered. Everything. I... I know I should probably have told you in person, but I couldn't... I just couldn't."_ There was a long pause. _"It's like I told you. I was a hunter of evil things. My dad was a hunter too. I grew up knowing that a hunter who sees the other side of fifty is a damned lucky hunter. I always knew something I hunted would kill me some day. I wish it had happened that way. I was in--"_

The machine beeped to show the message ended, then moved on to the next message, and it was Dean again. _"Long story short, I had a run in with a witch. He put a spell or a curse on me. Turned me into this... a monster. An incubus,"_ he said, his voice breaking. _"I... I thought I could fight it, the change, but I couldn't. I killed... I killed so many people Sam, so many. Their faces..."_ There was a sniff. 

_"Anyway. It's hard to kill an incubus. You can burn it. It takes days. Then you spread its ashes around and it stays dead for maybe fifty to a hundred years. Only other--"_ The message cut off again. The next one started playing. _"The only other way is to starve it for six months. It's what I was doing. I tried and failed so many times, but I almost made it this time. Almost. Five months Sam, I hadn't fed. And then I fed on you, because I'd lost my mind by then... forgotten everything. I can't do it again. And I can't stay with you. I want to, want to so bad, for reasons you don't even know. But I'm not gonna hurt you. I have to end this. I'm going to those hunters. I should have when they were at your house."_ There was an audible swallowing sound. _"I hope you can forgive me. For... for everything. I love you,"_ he said in a rushed tone, before he hung up.

Sam stared at the machine in bewilderment as it clicked off. He blindly reached behind himself for something to stop himself from falling as he staggered back away from the answering machine like it might be poisonous and bite him. But then again, maybe it... Dean... already had. His hand connected with the small countertop bar behind him and he leaned against it as Dean's words played over and over in his head as though he were rewinding the tape and replaying it. 

_Incubus._

_Starve it._

_Six months._

_Fed on you._

_Can't stay._

_Going to those hunters._

_You can't kill an Incubus. But you can burn it. It takes days._

He remembered the marks on Dean's body when he'd found him, burn marks that had remained on his skin until the night they'd spent together. His tongue darted out, licking across his lips, his jaw somewhat slack with shock. 

Sam pulled himself together and thought through things. His next step had to be to find those hunters. Wherever they were, that's where Dean would be. Then he'd talk some sense into Dean, talk him out of this suicide mission. 

Turning away from the counter he made his way back into the bedroom where he could get dressed then start on his quest. He remembered Dean having spoken about the hunters having come by his home which meant that the best place for him to start was at the church. 

* * *

Hearing footsteps, Father Peter looked up from his paperwork and then saw Sam hovering in his doorway in the small office building right behind the church. "Samuel!" Immediately, he got on his feet and walked around the desk, inspecting every inch of Sam. "You appear healthier, yet there are shadows under your eyes. You will heal now," he assured Sam. The silence made him a little nervous. "I'm sorry for the pain we caused you. It was in your best interest, and neither Father Fabian nor I took any pleasure in it. Quite the opposite," he said, wringing his hands. 

Sam stepped out from the shadows of the doorway meeting Father Peter straight on though his head was bowed. Drawing in a breath he lifted his gaze to the priest's, staring at him from under his brows, "Where is he?" He demanded quietly. 

"Do you want to sit down?"

Sam pressed his lips together in a disgruntled line of irritation and narrowed his eyes at the man before him. "I said where he is?" He repeated.

"He's with the hunters. Samuel," Father Peter put his hand on Sam's arm. "They will be as humane as possible, I made them promise. The man was once one of their own, and he turned himself in. This thing, what you're feeling, it will fade. Then you'll see the truth more clearly. It is how it has to be," he explained gently.

Sam's slowly turned, looking down at the man's hand on his arm before he lifted his gaze once more to the priest's and jerked his arm away. "Don't touch me," he hissed softly. "The promise of one of you being humane does not squelch my concern for Dean for I have tasted your _humanity_ and found it lacking," he growled, taking a threatening step forward. 

Father Peter took a step back, but then stood his ground, ready to accept whatever treatment Sam deemed appropriate. "Sometimes doing what is right, or the thing that can save you, is painful. Do you think a physician who is given the choice of amputating a man's arm or allowing the man to die from gangrene is inhumane for taking the first option even when there is no anesthesia? Your anger, your hurt at our having poured holy water on you, I understand that. But if you think it through, you will see, you will know that it was the humane choice." 

Sam's arm snaked out, grabbing the front of the priest's shirt, hauling him up and slamming him against the nearby wall. "I don't care about what you did to me," he snarled. "What I want to know is where those men are keeping Dean. Tell me what I want to know, Peter or you may find out firsthand what it is to be the man who is amputated when there is no anesthesia to be found," he growled. 

"Sam!" Father Peter's heart pounded against his chest. This was only the second time in the entire five years that the church had taken Sam under its wings that he'd seen Samuel angry. "I don't know. I really don't. They drove away in their trucks. He went with them willingly."

Sam searched Father Peter's eyes for the truth and finally released him, allowing the man to slide down the wall. "Tell Father Fabian I'm looking for him," Sam muttered as he turned and headed back out of the church. 

He walked back toward his cottage not even noticing the cold wind that whipped through the trees around him or the snow that fell from the darkened sky, his mind completely centered on nothing and no one but Dean and how he would find him. On Dean being alright, on his surviving, returning to him. 

_Dean!_

 

* * *

It was pitch dark in the concrete silo which would be his prison until he starved to death and then was burned to ashes. Dean supposed he ought to consider himself lucky that they weren't burning him first, knowing that it would weaken him and make the process go faster. Or maybe they would still do that. He couldn't help thinking negative thoughts as he paced in the dark. 

Ten feet, that was the diameter of what would be his last resting place. Only for months, there would actually be no _rest_. He knew that first hand. It had taken forever for him to forget who and what he was, and to get into a confused state where the pain of his hunger was sometimes dimmed by numbness.

The hunger was there even now, lurking, sharpening each time he thought about his last _victim_. He forced himself to think of Sam that way. It made it easier to leave him behind. To give him up. It was the bare truth anyway. Like a vampire, he'd been feeding on Sam, forcing him to feel things, whipping him up into a sexual frenzy and then benefiting from it while draining Sam's life away. 

"Fucking idiot. Didn't your parents teach you not to talk to stranger?" he demanded, kicking the wall, then cursing at the throbbing pain in his toes. 

He paced some more, running his hand through his hair. After he'd turned himself over to the hunters, he'd started to worry about Sam. Sam wasn't human either. Dean had seen the wings, and so had the hunters. What if they went after Sam? He'd talked to one of them, one who didn't seem over eager to kill him. The things the man told him about Sam, the reasons that the hunters would never kill him, it blew Dean's mind away. One minute, he couldn't believe. The next, he hoped. 

*

Hours, maybe days or weeks or months passed. Dean couldn't tell. Why hadn't he asked them to at least give him some light? Maybe a TV. He was going to go crazy in here, in the dark, with no sounds, no interaction and nothing to think about except...

With his back against the cold wall, Dean slid down to the floor and imagined himself at the cottage. Sam's Christmas carols would be playing, unless... had Christmas passed already? Well, in his mind, it would always be Christmas at Sam's, at least until he lost his memories. The fire, the sofa, the soft colorful lights, and the smiling, somewhat shy man who'd given him everything, yeah... that was the last and best memory he'd hold fast to, when the time came.

* * * 

The house was dark, not a single light lit within the small dwelling as Sam stood in the hallway of his home, his hands gripping each side of his head as he grit his teeth against the pain that shot through his body and squeezed his eyes closed. His breaths panted harshly through flared nostrils before his lips parted as he turned, rolling his back against the wall as he pried open his eyes, staring heavenward. His face flushed a deep scarlet and a sheen of sweat broke out across his skin and dotted his brow, rivulets of sweat trickling down from his temples, along the side of his face, and dripping off his jaw line.

"Dean," he groaned, eyes shining with tears of pain and worry, fear and frustration. "Dean!" He screamed. 

Sam's panicked and frenzied thrashings and screaming continued until he was nearly hoarse, his clothes and hair dripping wet with sweat, his features flushed a deep crimson, the veins in his throat and face standing out against his skin. The tendons in his neck protruded severely as he screamed again, then his scream was abruptly silenced, replaced by bright white light that suddenly burst out from within the core of Sam's being, shooting out through his parted lips and wide eyes and flared nostrils. The brilliant light shone so strongly that it lit up not only the cottage but the entire neighborhood before dissipating and disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared.

The instant the light was gone, Sam collapsed, face first, to the floor.

* * *

Father Fabian knocked on the door, and hearing no response, opened it and walked inside. "Sam? Samuel? Are you here? I've been out of town and just got your message," he called out, walking into the dark living room and flipping the light switch on. 

"Dear Lord above, Samuel!" he said, rushing to Sam's side and rolling him onto his back. "Are you alright? I saw the light. Have you... have you come back to yourself?" he asked, hoping it had finally happened. 

Sam's eyes slipped open and he stared at the ceiling a moment as his mind worked through all the facts that seemed to pour into it. Slowly he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his attention turning to Father Fabian. "Where is he, Fabian?" He inquired. "Where are they holding him?" He climbed to his feet and turned to face the priest, his gaze boring into the man as though searching his very soul for the answers he sought.

"Samuel, the man is a prisoner in his own body. They are putting things right, setting him free of the evil in the only way possible. I don't know where they're holding him, I didn't ask. Do you... do you understand what he was doing to you?" He asked, looking out the window. "I mean beyond the obvious." 

"I understand that he is a victim," Sam answered. "And that he does not deserve to be treated this way, much to your astonishment I am sure," he sneered. He paced away from the priest then turned back, "I know that what he is and that he feeds through copulating."

Father Fabian raised his hand. "Your anger is misdirected, Samuel. I do not blame him for what he has become. Dean does not _deserve_ this, nor did he deserve the curse that was placed on him. But he also does not deserve to be forced to live a life of fornication, sodomy and murder. He must be put to rest. The fact that he understands this and has chosen this for himself proves he is a righteous man. We will all mourn for the man, but the monster..." he shook his head. 

"He is not a monster," Sam argued. "And the curse can be reversed. He was not created an incubus and he does not have to live as one. There is a way," Sam muttered before heaving a sighed breath. "If you cannot help me find him then I am wasting time talking to you." 

"You shouldn't be near him. He has already led you astray. It cannot be good for your... your true nature," Father Fabian said.

Sam's eyes tightened as he glared at Father Fabian before disappearing from the room in a flutter of wings. 

A few moment later, Sam reappeared across the room, his jaw tilted in a stubborn angle as he marched to the small wooden chest that sat near the Christmas tree. 

"Samuel!" The priest dropped down onto his knees and stared at the man he'd taken care of and guided for the past five years. "You remember. You know who... what... you are," he whispered, knowing it had to be true.

Sam popped the lid of the trunk open, dropping a few things he'd gathered inside it and confirming he had everything else that he would need if Dean agreed to his idea. "Yes," Sam replied distractedly, "I remember."

"Glory be to God, you've healed," Father Fabian bowed his head and gave silent thanks, before standing up. "Do you have any instructions?" he asked. "Are there formalities before you once again ascend?" He was at a loss.

"Instructions?" Sam echoed and turned toward Father Fabian. "Yes, you need to tell me where to find the hunters," he commanded. " _That_ is the only formality to be taken care of before I go anywhere!" 

"I have only phone numbers. I have never lied to you, I would not," Father Fabian said, feeling Sam's piercing gaze. 

"Phone numbers?" Sam inquired abruptly. "Look them up, find their locations." 

Taking the phone off his belt clip, the Priest walked to the table and sat down. Scrolling down through his contacts, he tried to call two of the hunters, then shook his head. "No one is answering. It's Christmas Eve. Perhaps in a day or two," he said, having left a message for one of the hunters. 

Sam's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed a second before he disappeared in the flutter of wings. 

* * *

The fluttering of wings filled the silence, the sound echoing off the surrounding walls. Sam's gaze swept the area, brow creasing in confusion and concern as he searched the darkness for the one he sought. "Dean," he called gently.

"Sam!" Dean was up on his feet and launching himself in the direction he felt Sam's energy coming from. Finding him with deadly accuracy, he pinned him against the wall and covered Sam's mouth with his, grinding hungrily against him. So good, as good as he remembered. But safe, because this was another dream, it had to be.

Sam's arms wrapped around Dean immediately. He returned Dean's kisses although, this time, there was no exchange of energy. Sam knew how to hold it back, to retain what was his despite Dean's needful demands. Pulling his head back, he rand one hand up Dean's back and threaded his fingers through his short cropped hair. "I'm going to get you out of here," he murmured.

"What?" Dean tilted his head back. Hunger gnawed at him, just as he'd expected. Dreams didn't satisfy, but dreams didn't feel this solid either. They didn't come in 5D, didn't smell just right, sound just right, taste just right. Unable to help himself, knowing it was damned wrong, he stayed in Sam's arms for another few seconds, seconds which might restart the clock to starvation. It took everything he had then, to push away from Sam.

He couldn't see anything, but he could still feel him there. "You need to leave." Dean's lip trembled slightly, but his voice was firm. "Don't you get it. To me, you're just _food_."

"And you're more than everything to me," Sam replied softly taking a step forward toward Dean. 

"I stole from you. Took from you." Dean stepped further back, fighting temptation with everything he had.

Sam was in front of Dean in a blink of an eye, pushing him against the silo's wall behind him. "Yes, you did. But you didn't know what you were doing. You're not evil, Dean and you don't need to be here, doing this."

"You don't know. You don't know," Dean ground out. "I killed people. Drained them. I see their faces. I used to help people, now I'm what I used to kill. You need to go. If you love me, if you care for me even a little, you won't make this harder Sam. Go. Please," he said, his voice breaking as he struggled not to beg Sam to stay.

"I do know, I know far more than you could ever imagine. I know that what you are is not your fault and I know that you do not have to remain as you are," Sam retorted angrily, shoving Dean against the wall and using his body to hold the man in place, his eyes boring into Dean's in the darkness. His lips quirked upward into a smug smirk as he searched Dean's eyes. "Can you see me, Dean?" He inquired softly. "For I can see you, more of you than you know."

"No. I can't see you." Dean tried not to be drawn in by Sam's intoxicating scent. "I can feel you. More of you than you know," he shot back, sensing the energy he needed to feed on. "If you keep this up, you're gonna end up dead. And I'll be damned one more time," he said, looking down and touching his forehead to Sam's shoulder in the process. When Sam didn't pull away, he added, "if you're really an angel, you're not a very smart one." No, he didn't believe in angels. He did believe that if Sam didn't get out of there, he wasn't going to be able to control his needs for long. 

Sam's lips curled into a smile. "So you know," he mused. He lifted a hand and cupped Dean's cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along Dean's bottom lip. "You can't kill me," he whispered. Pulling his hand away he leaned in and pressed his lips softly against Dean's, kissing him languidly, tongue darting out and flicking into Dean's mouth, tickling across the roof of his mouth before tangling with Dean's. Sucking at Dean's bottom lip as he pulled his head back, he ending the kiss and gave a soft sigh. "I thought I'd lost you." 

Dean licked his lips, tasting Sam on them. "I was lost long before I met you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Even if it's true, if you can't die..." Dean could buy that, it was the same for an incubus, you could only kill one in a specific way or it kept coming back. "I don't want to be responsible for keeping you sick... in bed... I'm sorry. Sorry Sam, for making you fall for me." His eyes fluttered shut against the pain, the knowledge that the only reason Sam even though he loved him was the dark powers of attraction that he had as an incubus, that he'd used on Sam.

"I know you're sorry, Dean and I forgive you," Sam answered. He shook his head, "But you can't hurt me anymore," he explained with a smile. "You can try, but..." he shook his head, "I think you'll find the results to not be very satisfying now that I've remembered who I am and what I can do." He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his fingers down the side of Dean's face lovingly, "Come on, let's get you out of here," he suggested. 

"You'll take care of this?" Dean turned his face slightly, pressing his cheek to Sam's hand. "It's not going to be easy," he warned. "You have to keep me from feeding for six months. Time will come when I'll probably beg, or worse," he said, thinking Sam was proposing to exchange one prison for another. A more comfortable place for him to starve the monster to its death.

"If you want it, I can take care of everything, yes," Sam agreed with a nod. "And no, it won't be easy, there will be a lot of pain involved, but together we can see it through," he responded, pointedly ignoring the rest of what Dean said. 

Dean closed his arms around Sam, though he stiffly kept his face well away from him. "Yeah. I'd rather go out like that," he said hoarsely. He was being selfish. Someone like Sam, a person, even a purported angel, with a kind, soft heart, should not have the responsibility of destroying someone they at least thought they loved. That was a hunter's job. 

Sam gave a curt nod as he wrapped his arms tightly around Dean and in the flutter of angel wings the two of them disappeared from inside the silo. 

* * * 

In the cottage, Dean felt a mixture of happiness and sadness. It felt like home. But in truth, this was going to be the first step to his destruction. Looking at Sam, he was okay with that. "You do look better. See what a couple days without me does for your complexion," he said, trying to joke about it. 

Sam glanced over at Dean and lifted his brows while busying himself, bringing the chest from the living room to the kitchen and gathering the items they would need for the ritual. "It wasn't your presence or lack thereof that changed me," he retorted. "I remembered who I am," he said as he started to fill a basket with things he'd need. 

"You're wrong. Wait a minute," Dean took a couple of steps toward Sam who was in the kitchen. "Are you saying you don't believe? That you're not going to do what needs doing?" Fear clenched around his heart like a fist. "I thought you understood, or I wouldn't have come."

Sam's lips quirked into a smirk as he lifted his head and he nodded, "I know," he replied softly, his smile falling away. "I know what you are, Dean. I know what needs to be done and I am doing it, you don't have to worry about that," he explained. His hands rose to the edge of the counter, loosely fisted hands bracing there as he hung his head briefly before lifting it once more. "I am not going to kill you," he stated firmly, "there is no need." Pulling his hands from the counter he measured some dried herbs, then crushed them between his fingers and placed the mixture into a small bowl. 

"Sam..."

"I told you that you were not born and incubus, you did not choose to be that which you've been turned into, and that you do not need to remain as an incubus," Sam said, pausing for a moment, his eyes meeting Dean's. "You are not evil Dean. You are a victim. I know the spell that can undo that which was done to you all those years ago."

"There's a counter-spell? It doesn't require witches?" Though he wasn't doubt-free, Dean felt excitement coursing through him as he approached. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

Sam nodded, "Yes there is, no it does not require witches," he replied with a smile. "Yes, I am certain and I know," he lifted his eyes to Dean's, "because God told me."

"God told you. _God_ told you?" Dean's voice rose. "There's no God. If there was, he left the building a long time ago. Tell me what's going on."

Sam's jaw clenched as he listened to Dean. Refusing to argue with him over what he knew to be true, he lowered his attention back down to what he was doing, "I already told you," he said dryly. 

"You can believe what you want, but in case you haven't noticed, holy water, crosses... they're not exactly friendly to demons. Demons like me," Dean said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "You need to stop. Talk to me," he said.

Sam's head snapped up, his eyes boring into Dean's, "No, you're the one who needs to stop. You are _not_ a demon, Dean," he argued shaking his head. "Not really, not innately. It's not _who_ you are, it is only what you have become."

"Don't you think I know that?" Dean ground out. "That doesn't change the fact that I am one now. If you knew what I'm thinking right now." His jaw throbbed as he lost his battle and started to visualize the things he wanted, needed from Sam. Hungry, he was so hungry and Sam was just standing there. As his gaze raked over Sam from head to toe, images carding through his mind. Their bodies naked, writhing against each other, their breaths mingling... Sam pleading.

Sam paused again and stared skeptically into Dean's eyes. No, as a matter of fact he wasn't sure that Dean knew that. He acted as though he'd been born evil, that he had wanted this, Sam knew better. He'd witnessed actions that spoke to the contrary. He sighed heavily in exasperation, looked down briefly before lifting his eyes to Dean's once more.

As if magnetized by Sam, Dean closed the distance between them. His eyes glued on Sam's red lips, he grabbed Sam's hips and lifted, stepping forward and setting Sam down on the counter. He could hear Sam's heart beating as he stepped between his legs. Brushing his lips against Sam's, he whispered. "Tell me you want me. Beg me. Ask me," he demanded, "Want me."

Sam's hands automatically rose to Dean's shoulders as he was lifted up onto the edge of the counter. His head tilted slightly to one side as his own gaze raked over Dean's face and form, marveling at his strength and beauty and, once again, Sam was stunned that the creature before him was not an angel but a resident of hell. His heart sped up as his body flushed with desire, eyes fluttering closed as their lips met briefly, far too briefly for Sam's liking. His tongue darted out as his eyes cracked open and he licked the taste of Dean's kiss from his lips. "I want you," Sam whispered automatically and without hesitation. He lifted a hand from the edge of the counter, cupping the side of Dean's face. His gaze slowly lowered from Dean's eyes to his luscious bottom lip as he brushed his thumb slowly back and forth across it. 

"I....could beg you," Sam agreed and lifted his gaze, the corner of his lips quirking into a soft adoring smirk, "I could ask you, tell you over and over how much I want you...show you...." he slowly shook his head as he frowned softly in regret. "But I fear that it would not feed the all-consuming hunger you feel."

Grabbing a handful of Sam's shirt, Dean tugged him closer and slanted his mouth across Sam's. He kissed him slowly, tangling his tongue with Sam's, moaning softly. He'd thought he'd never hold Sam in his arms again, never see him smile at him. That he had to stay away from him. But Sam said no, that he couldn't hurt him anymore. Dean wasn't sure he believed, but it gave him an excuse to allow himself this.

Sam's hold on Dean shifted, his hand slipping away from the side of Dean's face to cup the nape of his neck, his fingers playing with Dean's short fine hair while he wrapped his other arm around Dean, pulling him closer.

As they kissed, Dean's hunger sharpened. _Beg me_. Cupping the back of Sam's head, he deepened the kiss, moving his mouth more firmly over Sam's. So good, Sam tasted so good, felt so good. He wanted Sam so bad, he was already hard. "Want you. Tell me you want me," he demanded, pulling Sam closer to the edge of the counter so he could feel the proof of Sam's desire pressing into his stomach. Something was wrong. He was hot for Sam and he knew Sam was hot for him, but his hunger was getting worse. "Beg me."

Sam moaned hungrily into the kiss as he returned it, giving as good as he got. His head sliding from side to side as the kiss deepened and as they both grew more desperate, frantically devouring each other. "I want you too, my love," he breathed, his breath fanning Dean's lips as he spoke, their mouths mere inches apart. As he rubbed his cock against Dean's hard frame, Sam's breath caught in his throat and his gaze darted down Dean's body briefly before lifting lustfully back to Dean's face. He captured his bottom lip between his teeth and worried it a moment, knowing that they had other things they needed to be concerning themselves with. At the same time, he also knew that Dean was not ever going to believe him without experiencing it first hand, the lack of power exchange, the hunger that would remain after they made love. The only thing that Dean would feel at the end of their love making, or so Sam hoped, was loved. 

He nodded as he gazed deeply into Dean's eyes, "Please... Please, Dean."

The whispered plea set Dean's blood on fire. Covering Sam's mouth with his and kissing him fiercely, he pulled Sam up hard against his body, urging him to lock his legs behind Dean's back. Feeling Sam's arousal pressing against his stomach, Dean groaned out his desire and lifted Sam off the counter and stagger stepped to the living room.


	7. Chapter 7

Almost tripping over the coffee table and after knocking some of the items off it, Dean lowered Sam onto the sofa, pulling a pillow down and tucking it under Sam's head. His hands roved over Sam, untucking his shirt and exploring every inch of him. 

Something was wrong. The ache within him was sharpening, his cravings unsatisfied. "You... you have to want me. You have to beg me, Sam," Dean said, pulling his mouth away and staring into Sam's eyes. "I need... you have to."

Sam nodded, his gaze intent on Dean's. "I do want you, my love," he replied. "I want you so much," he murmured huskily. "Please," he whispered, "Please make love to me. Show me how much you love me," he coaxed, cantering his hips upward invitingly. He reached for Dean, tugging him down with one hand while boldly moving his other hand to the bulge between his lover's legs, cupping and squeezing Dean's hardened cock through his pants. 

"Yeah... oh yeah," Dean moaned at the sensations coursing through him. This was the first time Sam had touched him like this, made an advance rather than just clinging to him and rubbing against him. It made Dean all sorts of hot and had him thrusting against Sam's hand and bringing his mouth over Sam's again, desperately kissing him. 

Sam moaned into the kiss as he slid his hand around Dean and up, fingers carding into the short soft strands of his lover's hair. He moved his other hand lower, between Dean's legs, cupping his lover's balls and squeezing at them gently through the harsh fabric of his jeans. "Take 'em off," Sam panted between one kiss and the next. "Want to touch you." 

Dean's mind was hazy with lust. He knew something was very wrong, but he also knew something was very right. Sitting up, straddling Sam's hips, he locked gazes with him and undid his belt. Unbuttoning his pants, he unzipped them, his breaths coming out in harsh pants as he anticipated Sam's touch. 

Lifting off Sam, he shucked his shirt, then his jeans and shorts. "You have too many clothes on," he said, peeling Sam's shirt off too before straddling Sam's thighs again on the sofa. He took Sam's hand and slowly brought it to his cock, swallowing hard at the pulsing heat that went through him.

Sam's gaze locked on Dean's eyes as his hand curled around his lover's cock and he began to slowly stroke along his length, wrist pivoting with each upward glide of his fist. "So hard, my love," Sam whispered huskily, his hips cantered upward, thrusting his denim clad hips up against Dean's bare ass, the bulge in his jeans sliding against the crack of his lover's ass.

"Hard for you," Dean answered, grinding his ass over Sam's cock and groaning at how hard Sam was even through the jeans. "Want you. Want you so bad, it hurts," he rasped, moving his hips harder and putting more pressure on Sam's groin. He had his hands flat over Sam's stomach and chest, touching him like he couldn't get enough. 

Sam groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as his back arched wantonly before he cracked his eyes open, gazing with heated desire up at Dean while his hips continued to move, thrusting his throbbing dick up against his lover. "Take me, take what you want... make love to me, Dean," he breathed. 

Dean's breath hitched. Sweeping his hand down to the fastening of Sam's pants, he worked them open. Moving to the end of the sofa, he grabbed Sam's jeans at the ankles and tugged them so hard, he had them off in one motion. 

Dropping down onto his knees next to the sofa, Dean kissed his way up Sam's thigh, nuzzling them. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Sam's warm skin. "Sorry for what I did to you. Sorry for what I'm feeling now," he said almost brokenly. "For wanting to take... to hurt you."

His craving was so strong that even though he fought against it, he kept mentally reaching for Sam, trying to cajole and force him to let him drain his energy. Sam really had figured out how to stop him, the pain and hunger gnawing at him made that clear to Dean. "Sorry," he whispered again, moving his mouth over the hard outline of Sam's cock visible through the thin material of his shorts. 

Sam reached out, one hand lowering to his lover's hair, fingers threading lovingly into the short strands while the other caressed Dean's arm and across his back. "Shhh, you have nothing to be sorry for, my love," he soothed.

His hips rose up toward the heat of his lover's mouth as his breath hitched and a low guttural groan tore from his throat, his eyes slipping closed. He hissed in a breath and caught his lip between his teeth as his head rolled on the pillow under his head. "Feels so good..." he breathed softly.

As Dean mouthed the length of Sam's cock, his fingers curled around the waistband of Sam's briefs, his knuckles skimming along rock hard abs as he pulled them down. Lifting his head, he got the briefs down to Sam's thighs, and pushed them lower, then Sam kicked them off. 

Dean's heated gaze traveled over every inch of Sam, lingering hotly over his swollen lips, the hollow of his throat, his hardened nipples and chiseled body. "You're so damned perfect. Gonna make you feel good, so good," he promised, running his hand down from Sam's chest to his cock angling up against his stomach.

Closing his fist around Sam's cock, he squeezed it lightly, then started to stroke up and down a few times, before he slowed up and ran his thumb around Sam's crown, thumbing his sensitive slit. "Know how I took you in my mouth before? Do you want to fuck my mouth?" he asked, licking his lips and bringing his mouth close to Sam's dick.

Sam shook his head slowly as he gazed adoringly up into Dean's eyes, his hands sliding up and down his lover's shoulders and arms, wanting no _needing_ to touch him somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. "I want you to do it to mine," he rasped softly. His tongue darted out, licking across his lips before he parted them invitingly and tugged gently at his lover to get Dean to move up his body so that he could do just that, suck his cock and allow Dean to fuck his mouth. 

"God... Sam..." Dean groaned as he visualized himself in Sam's mouth. It took a little effort to position himself so he was straddling Sam's shoulders on the narrow sofa. Holding his cock, he rubbed its tip along Sam's jaw before brushing it over his wet lips, another groan leaving him at the intense surge of heat pooling low in his belly. 

Sam lifted his head marginally up off the pillow, taking the head of Dean's cock into his mouth and sucking at it hard, his cheeks hollowing out. A low moan tore from his throat and he hummed softly as his mouth slid further down his lover's dick and back up, tongue swirling about the head and flicking at the slit. 

At first, Dean barely moved, letting Sam get used to having him in his mouth. But as Sam started to experiment with his tongue, Dean started to lightly thrust his hips, groaning at the sight of his cock moving in and out of Sam's mouth. "So hot... you're so damned hot," he whispered, pushing more of his cock into the wet heat of Sam's mouth. "Yeah... it's good," he said through clenched teeth as Sam sucked harder on him.

A part of Dean gloried in this. In Sam wanting him just because _Sam_ wanted him, not because of any influence he had on the man. He loved how trusting Sam was, how he opened his mouth wider, how he let him thrust into his mouth harder and faster. Another part of him screamed in his head that this was wrong. That Sam should be the one pleading and begging, that he should be taking the edge of the hunger that was torturing Dean on a different level.

Closing his mind to dark thoughts, Dean leaned forward, gripping the arm rest of the sofa and started to fuck Sam's mouth more earnestly. "Yeah...oh God...yeah..." Head bowed down, watching Sam, his gaze moving between Sam's face and his cock, Dean started to ride Sam's mouth, unable to resist even though he knew Sam was far too innocent and inexperienced for this.

Sam groaned and moaned, humming against his lover's length while moving his mouth in time with Dean's thrusts, dragging the warm wetness of his mouth along his lover's dick. One hand moved to wrap around Dean's cock and he stroked the length of his lover's dick, chasing after his mouth. 

His cock pulsed and ached each time it sank deep in Sam's mouth. Dean found himself cursing as he was pushed closer to the edge. When he knew he couldn't take much more, he slowly pulled out of Sam's mouth, closing his hand around his swollen cock and stroking once more before he rose and slipped down Sam's body.

"Want to come inside you," Dean explained, his voice thick with desire. Leaning down, he kissed Sam with the intensity of the heat burning inside him. When he ran out of breath, he got up, pulling Sam up and off the couch and pushing him down to his knees on the floor. "Turn towards the couch."

When Sam did, Dean got down on his knees behind him. Running his hand up the center of Sam's back, he pushed Sam down over the seat of the sofa, and curling over him, kissed across his broad shoulders. "Why are you doing this with me? You once said maybe... maybe if we were other people... but we're not," he whispered, one hand reaching around Sam to stroke his cock.

Sam reached down and wrapped his hand around Dean's as his lover stroked his cock, "Because I love you. It's why you're supposed to copulate with someone," he replied softly. "There is a reason they call it making love," he mused thickly as he turned his head, looking back at his lover over his shoulder while he thrust his hips, pushing his dick into Dean's fist.

"Guess I've been doing it wrong." It was only partly a joke since he really had been doing it wrong as the incubus he'd become. But Dean wasn't gonna debate the rest because it didn't matter. Leaning in, Dean locked his mouth with Sam's, kissing him messily as they both pumped Sam's cock. Feeling Sam thicken and harden had Dean groaning and nudging his own hard cock along the crack of Sam's ass.

Sam hissed in a breath and gasped softly as he moved his hips, his cock pulsing in Dean's fisted hand. His head lulled back, leaning against his lover's shoulder while their mouths met and missed, kissing messily amongst needy grunted groans. "Yeah, please," Sam panted. "Wanna feel you," he breathed, "Want you inside me."

Sam's words were both sweet and painful to Dean's ears. He did his best to shut out the hunger and to enjoy this, the gift Sam was giving him, the opportunity to love him like a human, to be able to give and receive without hurting him. "Anything you want, baby, anything," he answered, sliding his hand between their bodies and adjusting himself and using his precum to prepare Sam.

As he pumped Sam's cock, Dean started to work his cock inside Sam, groaning against his shoulder. "So tight, so fucking tight," he whispered, pushing again, pumping his hips slowly until he was past the tight ring of muscle at Sam's entrance and was sinking deep inside him. Closing his eyes, he forced himself not to thrust, to allow Sam to get used to him. "Love you. Love you, Sam," he whispered against Sam's ear, praying for control. 

"I love you too," Sam replied gently and turned his head, eyes looking back as far as possible so he could see his lover. Sam's hips moved slowly, soft mewls breaking from his throat and tumbling from his lips. He captured Dean's free hand, lacing their fingers together lovingly. 

Bringing Sam's hand up to his mouth, Dean kissed it then brought their hands down onto the sofa, his fingertips digging into the soft cushions as he started to thrust his hips. He kept his movements small at first, sometimes grazing Sam's neck with his mouth, or seeking out his lips. He tried his best to meet Sam's gentleness with gentleness. "This okay?" he asked, knowing he should have asked that question the first time they'd been together, his eyes stinging at the thought that he hadn't... that all that had mattered was that he drive Sam mad with desire so Sam would give him what he'd needed.

Sam moaned as he nodded adamantly, "Oh yeah," he breathed, lips parting on his panted breaths. "Yeah, please don' stop," he rasped softly. "Don' stop, baby." He arched back against Dean’s hips, thrusting forward, and then again, pushing back against his lover's cock. Reaching back with one hand, he cupped the nape of his lover's neck and tugged Dean's head forward as he turned his own, tongue flicking out and delving deep into his lover's mouth, their lips missing and hitting with the movement of their bodies. His chest heaved with his panted breaths, heat spreading throughout his veins and shooting down to pool low in his gut, causing his cock to pulse within the vise of his lover's fist.

"Nghhh..." Dean groaned as Sam made it impossible for him to keep himself in check. Guided by Sam's movements against him, his demands, Dean started to fuck him in a slow, measured rhythm. He didn't give Sam any quarter, fucking him hard, straining to fuck him harder, using the heat, the building pressure within him to blot out his conflicting feelings of frustration, of desperate unmet needs to drain Sam, to take what he needed. He fought those needs, struggling not to demand the things he needed, not to threaten to leave, to go elsewhere to get what he needed. Curbing his dark nature was so damned hard, at any given moment, Dean didn't know whether he was winning or losing the battle. So he fucked harder. He fucked faster. He tightened his grip on Sam's hand and brought it to Sam's stomach, so he could pull Sam closer as he angled his thrusts, concentrating on fucking Sam just right, on Sam's moans and on the way he tightened around him, on the love he felt for this man, this angel. 

Breaking their kiss, Dean moved his mouth over Sam's back, over his shoulder blades to where he'd seen scars. They were gone now, completely gone. Healed in his absence. Closing his eyes, he kissed Sam there anyway, then whispered, "Come with me, Sam. Come with me," stroking Sam's cock faster as he felt the ache of his orgasm pulling him over the edge.

Sam groaned, his head hung forward one minute and tilted back the next. His inner muscles tightening against Dean's cock buried deep inside him, clinging to his length as though his body didn't want to release him. His grip on Dean's hand tightened while the fingertips of his other hand clawed wildly at the fabric of his couch. His eyes blinked open as he panted his breaths and heat shot through his body, coiling tightly low in his belly. His balls drew up almost painfully tight as Dean pulled him back against his body and angled his dick, striking his prostate with every thrust of his hips. "Dean," he panted harshly, the name ripped hoarsely from his throat as his muscles tightened and his body strained back against Dean's just before the first ribbon of cum shot from his cock. 

"Right here, baby. Right here, Sam," Dean answered in gasps, still stroking Sam's cock and still moving against him, riding out the waves of his release. "Tell me you love me," he said, still battling his dark side and having trouble believing someone like Sam could care for something like what Dean had become. 

Sam's eyes fluttered closed, his lips curving into a contented smile, "I love you, Dean," he murmured. "I have _always_ loved you," he added in a whisper. "And I shall always love you." 

A sense of peace invaded Dean, freeing him to enjoy the moment completely. Gently pulling out, he kept his arm around Sam and stood up, then turned him around. Gaze locked with Sam's, he whispered back, "Until my last breath." Then he was kissing him, basking in the love and peace Sam had brought him.

* * * 

Sam had finished packing the things he'd need for the ritual and put them next to the door. Now they sat at the dinner table, across from each other, Dean demanding an explanation. It had struck him as a little odd, Sam telling him he'd _always_ loved him. As far as he knew, Sam had thrown him out or wanted to throw him out several times after they'd first met so he damned well couldn't have fallen for him right off the bat, or 'always' loved him. He still found it hard to believe that Sam had fallen for him at all.

But that wasn't all. The cryptic talk about God having whispered a solution to Sam. Sam's being adamant about needing to perform a ritual tonight. Dean just... he couldn't 'fall in' without an explanation. 

"For all I know, this could all be a delusion," he told Sam, looking earnestly at him. "In the first couple of months when I was starving myself, I remember being delusional. Before... well before my memory started fading. This feels real but..."

Sam sighed heavily and turned away to stare out of one of the windows facing the church. He lowered his gaze and nodded before looking back to Dean. "I - this isn't the first time we've met," he said. "I didn't know until now. I mean until my memory of my life as an angel only just returned. For a long, long time, I knew you and loved you...from afar," he whispered. His lips quirked upward slightly, "I guess that explains my being unable to let you go despite wanting to strangle you, huh?" He gave a tentative chuckle. "As for God telling me about the ritual," he began with a dismissive shrug, "I'm an angel, He talks to us. It's really not all that hard to believe is it?" 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and stared at Sam. "Yeah, it is hard. You expect me to believe that all these years, all this time, God never took five seconds out to give me a hand, and _now_ , he just suddenly took an interest and whispered something into your ears, to save me?" He knew that prayers went unanswered, that good people died and that evil won ... too often. How could there be a God? 

Sam's brows lifted as he listened to Dean, taken aback that if all things Dean could have taken issue with, God's existence was what the hunter had a problem with and not his statement about having known Dean before they'd met here, in this place. He gave a soft chuckle and shook his head, looking away from his lover a moment before looking back. 

"You say there is no God, that he gives no attention to you and yet who do you think had me watch over you for all those years? In Michigan, when you were in the water saving that boy in the lake, when your lungs were burning for air long before you reached the surface, who do you think gave you that final push to the surface of the water? Or what about when the poltergeist was ripping the building apart, who do you think held it together until you were safely outside?" Sam demanded. "Or what about when you were knocked unconscious in that basement, all alone with no one knowing where you were... How do you think you woke up laying outside where you were safe?"

Dean's mind was reeling. All those times... all those times he'd thought he'd been one lucky sonovabitch to walk out of a situation, Sam had been there? Arizona, Ohio, so many other places. "That was... that was you?" he whispered softy, trying to understand the import of Sam's words. "You... you never stuck around," he said not doubting the truth of Sam's words. 

Sam nodded slowly, "It was me and there were times I stayed with you until I knew you were alright, but... revealing myself was not allowed..

"Then where were you when I was cursed? When I killed all those innocent people," Dean asked, bitterness slipping into his tone. "Why didn't you stop me, Sam? I'd rather have died."

Sam's gaze darted away from Dean's accusing stare and he sighed softly before returning his attention to Dean. "I was there," he admitted. "I was too late, but I heard and saw the witch curse you... At that moment, your soul was damned to hell," he whispered. "Then I plead your case in front of the Archangels, I swore that if they would not help me help you, then I would go on my own... but they agreed to help. A war was waged against hell's minions as we fought to reclaim ownership of your soul. I - I was wounded in that battle and was placed in Father Fabian's care until I recovered from my injuries." 

"That's how you lost your memories?" Dean blinked and looked down. It seemed things weren't black and white. When he'd been a kid, when he'd believed in angels and God, he'd imagined they were all powerful, that they could make anything happen. But if heaven had to battle hell for souls... it meant the battle between good and evil on earth was echoed in other places and on other scales. Or something. "And the battle. I'm still an inc..."

"No, we won the battle. If you'd starved yourself to death, your soul would have come to rest in heaven. If anything happens to you, if your body dies, you are not damned anymore." Biting his lower lip, Sam watched Dean.

"Thank God for small favors," Dean muttered, unsure if he should be impressed. He was more prone to worrying about his life on earth and didn't think about what happened after he was salted and burned. "Alright, alright," he repeated, accepting the things Sam told him. "So, basically, you _fell_ for me? I mean back then? Dude, it would have been easier to just run into me somewhere. Or did you worry I'd lead you from the straight and narrow," he teased, grabbing Sam's hand across the table.

Sam smiled warmly at Dean and shook his head. "As I said, speaking to you was forbidden." He squeezed Dean's hand gently, "I was not afraid of you...more for you..." he whispered softly and lifted Dean's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles tenderly. 

"What happens now? Are you allowed to be with me now? Or after we get this ritual over, are things going back to what they were like before?" Dean tried not to show weakness, to cover his doubts and fears. To make it seem like he could take Sam's answer, whatever it was.

Sam's lips parted but he couldn't seem to get the words to come out as he searched Dean's face. "What do you want to have happen now?" He asked instead.

"I don't want to give you up, but I won't... I won't force you to stay," Dean answered. "What about you? What do you want?" 

"I want to be with you...I've always wanted that. I asked for that once actually," he mused with a small tender smile. He shook his head and gave a small shrug, "It doesn't matter what I want, not really. The ritual only works one way. It has to be performed tonight, Christmas eve. Just as dark magic and rituals of destruction or chaos are stronger when performed on Halloween, Christmas strengthens white magic and rituals. Of course, with any true strong magic, there is a price..." 

_Price._ Dean stood up. "I am _not_ letting you be some sort of sacrifice, if that's what you're talking about. You got that, Sam?" he demanded, "I'd rather stay like this. I'd rather be in that damned silo for six months. I won't be responsible for one more death, especially yours." 

"Dean, you have to have faith. The ritual requires it... we could both die if we don't have enough faith," Sam spoke softly, looking up at Dean where he stood next to the table. He shook his head and pulled from his chair, standing to his feet and beginning to pace. "There is only one way to do this, Dean, and there must be a sacrifice. I have to fall," he stated flatly. 

Following him, Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders and turned him around. "You need to explain this to me. I'm not going into anything blind, and I won't be tricked." 

"I'd never trick you," Sam replied. "The ritual has to be performed in the church," he held up a hand to halt Dean's protest. "I know that it hurts you to go in there, I know," he murmured gently. "This is where your faith comes in. You have to have faith in a God that you do not believe in. You have to believe that you will survive this ... a taste of hell... no matter how painful it is." 

Dean remembered too clearly the pain he'd felt walking into church before, and now that his mind was clearer, he was quite sure it would be worse. "Okay, let's say I do this in church. Say I have enough faith. Is that it? That's the price you were talking about?" His gaze locked with Sam's, fear sliding down his spine. 

"For you, yes," Sam confirmed with a nod. He turned away and paced over to one of the shelves, toying with a small trinket that one of the children had given him. "The ritual ends there for you...the pain will continue until it is over, but so long as your faith does not waver..." he nodded, "you will be renewed and restored back to your former self. For me...it just begins," he muttered softly.

"What? No." Dean spoke through clenched teeth, his jaw aching. "Look at me, Sam. You're not dying for me, you're not. You talk to your Father you tell him he needs to come up with a plan B. This isn't happening," he said, meaning every word.

Sam shook his head, "There's every possibility that I will survive it," he argued gently. "Dean, as I've explained, the spell that the witch cast on you...Hell never got your soul, the battle prevented it and then when it ended, it was in a stalemate. Physically, you are and incubus, your needs and instincts, at least on the surface, are of an incubus. But your soul is saved, and that is why you do things like saving Bethany from fire. Why you feel remorse for feeding on others. Why you fought to kill yourself. You still have your soul, Dean, but to change you back to human, there has to be a sacrifice of...energy," he explained. "I have to rip out my grace." 

"Rip out your grace? That that means fall, right?" he asked, still frustrated that Sam was being a bit cryptic but realizing that he didn't mean to be that way. "You'd... you'd be human? Mortal? But you'd survive..." He let out a breath. "If it wasn't for me, would you be making this choice?"

"Yes it means fall and that I'd be as human as you." Sam pressed his lips together as he tried to think of a way to be truthful without scaring Dean. "There is every reason to believe that I should survive, yes," he agreed, having heard of some angels who had fallen and lived long lives as humans while others died as soon as their grace was ripped from their bellies. 

It took a moment for Dean to process Sam's answer, his eyes narrowing as he realized Sam has sidestepped him. "Would you choose to fall, if I wasn't involved," he demanded.

Sam's lips curled into a smile. "Your question is a bit like the one about 'which comes first, the chicken or the egg', isn't it?" He mused. "If you weren't here, I wouldn't be needing to contemplate this choice, but then you are here and so I can't help but think of it, make it, want it." 

"You're making jokes." Dean put his hands one Sam's arms, holding him, willing him to be serious. "I need to know, are you doing this to be with me, or to save me?" He might accept the former, but not the latter. "All those years, when you were... you know, loving me from afar," he said using Sam's words. "You never tried to fall. Now..." he looked away for a moment, then back at Sam. "Can't you see why I can't let you give up your grace?"

Sam slowly shook his head as he gazed into Dean's eyes, "No, I can't see why," he responded softly. Lifting a hand he cupped his lover's jaw line and ran the pad of his thumb slowly across Dean's bottom lip. "Before, I didn't know what it was like to touch you, to kiss you, to really hold you," his lips curved into a smile, "Well, not like that anyway. Now that I do...I can't help but love you even more...and I'm not going to let you go. I give up my grace for both reasons; to save you and to be with you," he shook his head, "you can't make me pick just one, my love."

Dean's heart swelled. His throat closed up on him. It was hard to believe, that someone loved him this much, that someone could. And it was twice as unbelievable that he loved them back with all his heart. "For an angel, you know you've got bad judgment, getting involved with me." He leaned in and brushed his lips against Sam's, lingering to kiss him properly. 

Sam returned Dean's kiss, his fingers combing back through the short strands of his lover's hair as his tongue tangled with Dean's and a low moan broke from deep in his throat. 

"You sure it isn't you that's got the bad judgment getting involved with an angel?" He mused between kisses.

"Don't know. You're a damned fine angel." He kissed Sam, and whispered, "And you taste like heaven."

They settled down on the sofa, kissed and teased and flirted, until the church bells started to ring. It was midnight. Time to go.

* * *

Dean had hung back as the church doors opened of their own accord for Sam. The church lights went on and twinkled through the stained glass windows, looking deceptively welcoming, even to the likes of him.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Dean looked at Sam, nodded, and started to walk through the doorway. The instant he stepped on the threshold, his shoes started to smoke, his feet burning right through his boots. He was enveloped in heat and with each step that he took down the center aisle towards the altar, the pinpricks across his flesh grew sharper and more brutal, his skin reddening and blistering. 

_I can do this,_ he told himself, even when he faltered, doubts creeping into his mind, telling him he couldn't last long enough even to reach the altar.

Sam followed him inside, dark shadows of his wings filling the walls as he moved through the sanctuary, walking past Dean and scanning for the presence of anyone who might object to their presence or interrupt the ritual. Reaching the back of the main section, he glanced back at Dean, his brow creasing as he watched the smoke billow off his Dean's skin and clothes. "It's not much further, my love, we're almost there," he encouraged as he bit his lip in an attempt to force himself not to go to Dean, knowing that if he touched his skin it would only intensify the pain and likely pull the bubbling and burning flesh from his bones. 

"Closer we get, the worse it is," Dean said, his throat raw. Every step was more painful than the last. "Isn't it ironic that it's like I'm in hell?" It felt like his face was melting off, his clothes were sticking to his injured skin. It horrified him, the knowledge that the acrid smell of burning flesh, was his own. "C... can't," he said eventually, gripping the back of a pew.

Sam walking back to Dean, "Yes you can," he encouraged. "You're stronger than this. I know, I've seen you do things, overcome things that no other human would dare. You can do this, Dean. Have faith... believe in me," he coaxed. "You've kept some of your sense of humor, it's a good sign." 

Dean tried to laugh, though it came out as a grunt. He kept his eyes locked with Sam's, concentrated only on Sam as he forced himself to take another step. The soles of the boots he'd been wearing had long ago melted off, now it was his bare feet sizzling, frying on the floor. He didn't dare look, but he wouldn't be surprised if some of his bones were exposed. A dry sob broke out of him, then another, his salty tears coursed down his cheeks, searing his flesh as badly as the fire.

Sam slowly backed up as Dean walked toward him. He kept his gaze on Dean's face, unwilling to look down and watch as his lover's beautiful body get charred and cooked, bits of burned flesh falling away onto the floor around them. He knew that it had to hurt worse than anything he could imagine. "I know it hurts," he murmured soothingly. "I wish I could hold you...kiss it better...that I could carry you through here... Remember that I love you...that I am here with you...that I will not leave you...you are not alone, you'll never be alone." 

_Faith._ Dean was struggling to hang on to his. Maybe he could borrow Sam's, the guy had enough for both of them. As he listened to Sam's words, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, screaming as he burned from his knees to his ankles. He stretched his arms out, toward Sam ahead of him, and started walking on his knees, leaving a trail of burnt flesh behind him. 

Finally, he reached the altar. "Hurry," Dean said, dropping down on all fours, then screaming as his palms blistered.

Sam had started to move back to Dean, unable to take seeing his love in so much pain another minute, only to stop when Dean made it to the alter and begged him to hurry. Sniffling and blinking away his own tears, he nodded rushed to the altar, dumping the contents of his basket out. As he set up for the ritual, his attention constantly darted to Dean, watching to be sure that his love was in one piece. 

Once he finished preparing the altar, all of the candles in the church burst to life, the flames burning intensely. The scent of incense started to rise, cleansing the air of the smell of burning flesh.

Reaching for the alter cloth, Sam gave one sharp tug, and pulled it free without disturbing the items he'd placed on it. He spat in the center of the cloth, desecrating it. Covering his hands in the cloth, he reached for Dean. "Come to me, it won't burn you," he promised. "It is no longer consecrated."

Groaning, Dean forced himself to move forward on his knees, then straightened, giving his shaking hands to Sam, almost sobbing when there was no more pain where Sam touched him with the cloth. "Don't know how long I can hold it together," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't know."

"I know, babe, I know," Sam murmured soothingly. He stepped closer to Dean and wrapped the cloth around his love's body, over Dean's shoulder's then scooped Dean up into his arms and carried him all the way up to the altar. He kneeled in front of the altar, placing Dean on his lap while he mixed some of the herbs he'd brought with holy oil and finished preparing for the ritual, while making sure to keep Dean's body from coming in contact with any other part of the church. 

As Dean's pained sounds tapered off, Sam whispered a prayer of thanks for having been granted an answer. When he hadn't been unable to bear Dean's agony anymore and had begged Father to help Dean, a voice had whispered to him, shown him the way to protect Dean from more pain. 

"Are you… better now? A little at least?" Sam asked, while he mixed the last ingredients, blood from a cat along with very old bones. 

"Better. Yeah." Dean's breaths came out in strained puffs, like he was forcing himself to keep breathing air that burned his nasal passages. "Where'd you get blood?" he asked, recalling how Sam had disappeared from the cottage a few times when he'd been packing things. "Never mind... let's get it over with."

Sam's lips curved into a soft smile, "Always worried about others," he mused, "Even thinking to protect them from an angel. I got the blood from Mister Wiggles, Father Fabian's cat," he replied and chanced a peek at Dean. "Don't worry, I gave Mister Wiggles a band-aid for his troubles, he is well and good," he soothed with a nod. 

When he was done, Sam slid an arm under Dean's knees and slipped the other around his back. "I - I need to place you somewhere," he explained. "It's...it's time for me to do my part."

Bracing for the pain, Dean allowed Sam to help him up, yelling as the soles of his feet blistered and burned. He gripped Sam's shoulder for support, and yelled again at the sharp pain, letting him go and doing his best to keep his balance. Gritting his teeth, he bit back the urge to shout, to ask for help, for release from this torture, so that Sam could concentrate. 

Dean's agony had Sam biting his lip and feeling conflicted about having to allow Dean to keep hurting like that. He stepped closer, "No, wait," he muttered, tightening the cloth around Dean's shoulders. "Maybe...lean against something now? So you aren't so directly on the holy items?" He suggested. He leaned in and brushed his lips against the material covering Dean's hand where he held it closed around his shoulders. "I love you," he murmured gently before stepping away and lowering onto his knees before the altar. 

Sam picked up a dangerous looking blade and turned his attention to Dean. "Whatever happens, don't touch me and if I ask you to do something, please do it for your own safety, alright?" 

If Dean hadn't been in the shape he was in, he'd have demanded an explanation of what he should expect, but he felt like he was at the end of his rope, like when the wolves had devoured him. The darkness had swallowed him for a time, and he was afraid he might faint now. "Okay." His jaw pulsed as he stared at the blade in Sam's hand.

Sam nodded and turned his attention back to the bowl. He sliced the blade across his palm, allowing rich red blood to drip and sizzle into the bowl before catching fire. Briefly glancing at Dean, he set the blade down and began to chant in a language that hadn't been used in centuries.

Lifting his shirt, Sam brought his blood covered hand to his abs and chest, his fingertips pressing against his bare flesh and then sinking into his skin, and deeper, past tissues and muscle. Sam's face contorted with pain, his eyes squeezing tightly closed and his teeth clenching, features turning a deep beet red shade. A scream tore from his lips as his head tilted back, sweat peppering his brow and dripping from his temples. His body convulsed and shook as sounds of pain and agony tore from Sam's throat. Tears streamed down his face, staining his cheeks with their salty tracks. Blood sweat peppered Sam's body, staining his clothes and sliding down his form like red rain. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull his hand out of his gut. As his hand moved closer to pulling free of his insides, his body started to shake more violently and his shouts became louder. 

"LOOK AWAY!! SHUT YOUR EYES!!" Sam bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Dean had been watching in a horrified stupor, almost forgetting his own pain as he saw Sam literally shove his hand into his own body. His head swam with Sam's cries and he was about to tell him, to order him to stop this, tell him it wasn't worth the pain, when he saw Sam's gut start to glow with an inner light. It was self-preservation instinct, rather than obedience, that had Dean screwing his eyes shut.

Sam's own eyes snapped open when he pulled his hand free of his body and held a mass of pure radiant white light in his palm. The light turned pale and burned so brightly that it lit up not only the church and the town, but the entire Midwest for the blink of an eye, before dissipating and disappearing completely. Sam slumped face first onto the floor.

The side door of the church burst open, revealing a very anxious and fearful looking Father Fabian. "Samuel!? What have you done?"

The sound of Sam's body hitting the floor had Dean's eyes snapping open. "Sam!" He was the walking wounded, and it took him longer to get to Sam than it took Father Fabian to walk down from the side entrance all the way to the altar. "I didn't..." Dean dropped down on his knees, biting back a scream and expecting his flesh to burn, but there was no pain where he was touching consecrated ground. "Sam? Sammy?" he reached for Sam and started to lift him.

"Leave him alone. You're unclean," Father Fabian shouted, trying to push Dean away.

"I'm not. Now help me, or get the fuck away," Dean growled, shifting Sam, closing his eyes against the pain of having pressure on his earlier burns, but very conscious of the fact he was no longer being roasted alive. Just as he got a good grip on Sam, water splashed into his face, dripping down his chin and onto Sam and the floor. 

Father Fabian dropped the urn of holy water and stared at Dean when there was no rise of steam, no cry of pain. "What is happening?"

"Sam uncursed me. I need a place, somewhere to put him, until he wakes." Dean said it like he knew Sam would wake, like it was for sure, yet his eyes were stinging as he hugged Sam closer.

"This way," Father Fabian said, leading the way to one of the back rooms, then down some stairs to the hall beneath the church. "There are cots here, for when the church is used as a shelter," he explained, crossing the room and opening a closet. From inside it, he pulled out a folded cot. 

Within a few moments, he had the cot set up and motioned toward it.

Dean carefully set Sam down, and looking up, nodded for Father Fabian to cover him with a blanket. Reaching out, he brushed Sam's hair off his face. "Wake up. Come back for me," he whispered.

"I think you should leave. I'll stay with Samuel. Watch over him again like I did before." The priest drew a chair close.

"I'm not leaving him."

"Your presence is not appropriate. Besides, you could use some cleaning up. Some rest," Father Fabian said, softening his words.

Dean glared at him, then headed to the closet. A moment later, he had a cot set up next to Sam's and sat on it. 

"Son."

"Not your son," Dean said through gritted teeth. "You should go. I'll watch him as well as you did. I swear," he said, keeping his temper in check only because this man was important to Sam. He was surprised when the priest did as he suggested, got up and headed for the stairs. 

Dean leaned over Sam and took his hand. The cut in his palm was healing, and Dean saw that his own burned flesh was starting to return to normal. He hoped this was a good sign, that Sam was healing on the inside too. "Come back to me," he whispered. "Come back, Sam."

*

It was almost morning. Dean had fallen into short bouts of exhausted sleep interrupted by worry. He'd wake with a start and immediately check to make sure Sam was still breathing, and then slowly drift back into the arms of sleep. 

Now, he rolled off his cot and was deeply disappointed to find he still couldn't shake Sam awake. The hall lights were on dim, but he could see how pale Sam was and how motionless, which scared him. Really scared him.

Somehow, Dean found himself on his knees and looking up, feeling very foolish but unable to stop himself. "I did everything. Came in here. Had _faith_. Watched him suffer for me. Don't make me watch him die, please. Please don't," he said hoarsely. "He said Christmas is special. It's when the good guys win. Let him win. Don't let him die. Don't take him from me." 

Sam's lips parted as he took in a startled gulp of air, his eyes snapping wide open and head rolling from side to side as he anxiously searched for Dean, wondering what had happened to him and whether the ritual had worked. Had he made it? Was he whole, human, safe? "Dean?" He rasped hoarsely. 

"Sam!" Dean turned around and curled his body over Sam's, his hand pressing into the sides of the cot as he stared down at Sam's face. "You scared me so bad. I thought..." Swallowing, he took one of Sam's hands and squeezed it. "I get it, though. You're my Christmas present. Makes up for all the ones I missed," he said, half teasing. "How ya feeling?"

Sam's brow creased as he struggled to make sense of what his love was rambling on about, one question in the forefront of his mind. He shook his head as his eyes searched Dean's features and moved slowly lower over healed flesh that shone through the burned and charred material of Dean's clothes. 

"It - it worked?" He asked hopefully. "You're human again?" 

"Yeah, it worked. I'm _me_ again. It feels... strange," Dean said, not having thought too much on it during the night when he was more worried about Sam. "What about you? Are you human now?" His gaze swept over Sam's slightly bloody clothes, and back to his face. 

Sam allowed his eyes to slip closed as his brows lifted and he hummed out his agreement. "I think so," he allowed. "That or I cut out my liver with a butter knife for nothing," he joked, opening his eyes to meet Dean's worried gaze, a teasing smile curling his lips. 

"Don't ever do that again," Dean said, making a face. 

Sam gave a hoarse chuckle, "Don't worry. Won't ever be doing that again."

"Can you walk? I want to go home. With you," Dean answered, smiling.

"I think so," Sam murmured and grabbed the side of the cot, rolling slightly onto his side before slowly sitting up with a groan of pain.   
"Ugh, I wasn't kidding, it really does feel like I just had something ripped out of me," he said, lifting his shirt and looking down at his stomach. 

Dean ran his palm over the bright red mark marring Sam's skin, then put his arm around Sam. "C'mon. I'll carry you. Let's give em something to talk about," he said, hearing the church bells ringing and knowing it mean some people would be out and about. 

It was a struggle, carrying Sam up the stairs, but Dean was determined. He'd carried Sam all the way home once before, and he damned well would do it again, even if his strength was diminished.

Having seen where the side exit was, Dean kicked it open and had Sam outside in the sunshine. It was cold, and he'd... they'd both be shivering in a few minutes, but they were alive, and it was good.

Dean had taken a few steps into the snow, intending to walk through the woods to the house, when Father Fabian emerged from the small house nearby and rushed towards them, pulling his coat on over his robes. 

"Samuel, are you unharmed?"

Sam peered past Dean at the priest and returned his attention to Dean, "Put me down, my love," he coaxed gently. "It's alright," he encouraged with a nod. When Dean stubbornly refused to put him down, Sam rolled his eyes and spoke again when Father Fabian reached them. "Yes, thank you for your concern, Father," Sam answered, "We are _both_ well," he added pointedly. 

"Good, good," the priest said, his gaze darting between the pair of them. "I understand you were able to reverse the curse, that Dean is no longer unclean."

"Dean's right here," Dean spoke for himself. "I think I could use a shower, but I'm human again. I won't be draining Sam of his life," he said a little less aggressively. 

Father Fabian gave a nod. "Then you'll be moving on soon. Samuel, let me get a few people to help you home. This is..." he waved at the two of them. "Unseemly. It would be fine if you hadn't had ... relations when Dean was a demon, but now..."

Sam turned his head, his gaze roaming lovingly over Dean's face, lips curving slightly upward into a warm smile before he looked back at the priest and shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Father. Dean is going to stay right here, with me..." he glanced over at Dean, "That is, if he'll have me." 

Sam looked back at Father Fabian. "Father, God is totally indifferent to sexual orientation. He is simply happy when his children, his precious humans find love," he explained gently.

Father Fabian's face grew a little pinched. He stood there, looking a little uncomfortable, but hard put to argue with an angel.

"Well, that settles that. Guess you have a letter to write to the pope," Dean told the man. "And I've got a little... or not so little... angel to tuck into bed." Grinning broadly at Sam's reaction, he turned around and started trudging through the snow, with his angel nestled in his arms. 

Sam's mouth opened and snapped back closed again as he looked back over Dean's shoulder at the priest who was looking more scandalized than he'd ever seen him. "Dean," Sam chastised with a soft huff and a shake of his head. "Was that _really_ necessary?" 

"You've been watching me from _afar_ for years, Sammy. What do _you_ think?" Dean asked, thinking if Sam had really been keeping tabs on him for years, he just had to know that Dean would never pass up an opportunity like that. Grinning smugly, he set his sights on the small cottage ahead and lengthened his strides.

* * * 

[One Week Later]

Two glasses of sparkling white wine sat on the coffee table in front of them as they relaxed next to each other on the couch in front of the TV, watching the celebrations in New York and waiting for the count down. "I don't think I've ever done this before," Dean admitted. "Sat in one place and watched the New Year come around." 

Sam smiled wide at his love and gently bumped shoulders with him, "Well, I've never done it _with_ anyone before," he teased.   
"And before I was wounded and grounded to earth," he said, his brows lifting up as he searched his memories, "Never really realized the passing of time, at least not the way you...or _we_ do now." 

"Gives new meaning to 'time slips away.' I get it now. You really do have to make every day count," Dean said, thinking of the difference between how he'd felt as an incubus with all the time in the world, and now, as a human. Being able to contrast the passage of time as a human with that of an entity that was immortal gave him real understanding. He took Sam's hand. "You ever regret it? Leaving heaven behind? Falling?" 

"Being with you?" Sam surmised with the quirk of a brow as his lips pulled into a knowing smirk. He shook his head. "Nah, you? I mean, angel boyfriend, that's gotta be kinda heavy for a guy who...tends to like a bit of mischief in his life. Lot of things I've never done before...lot of things I probably shouldn't."

"Honestly?" Dean gave a wicked grin. "It's kind of like doing it all over again, for the first time. Like stealing cookies from the cookie jar, you know they always taste better. Speaking of tasting, lay one on me." He puckered his lips in invitation. 

Sam's started to lean in only to pause as he glanced at the countdown clock on the television, "We've still got another ten seconds," he protested with a chuckle as he brushed a quick kiss across Dean's lips, pulling back before his lover could pin him in place and take things further. "You're supposed to wait," he admonished. 

"No one told me there's a rule against starting early, just finishing early," Dean mock-complained, though he was sure it went over Sam's head.

Sam's attention turned back to the TV, a wide smile of pure happiness splitting his face as he began to count down the time along with Dick Clark. 

Dean joined in the countdown, watching as the ball descended and picking up the two glasses of wine, giving one of them to Sam.

"Five...Four...Three...Two..."

Confetti rained down onto the streets of New York City as they rang in the New Year and Dick Clark's voice rose above all the party goers wishing all those at home a Happy New Year.

"Happy New Year, baby," Dean whispered, touching his glass to Sam's and taking a quick sip. As soon as Sam set his glass down, Dean closed his arm around him, and drew him close, bringing his mouth down firmly over Sam's. The instant Sam parted his lips, Dean dipped his tongue into the warm heat of Sam's mouth and tangled his tongue playfully with Sam's, pulling him tighter as a satisfied sigh escaped him. He couldn't think of a single thing that was more perfect than the love and happiness he'd found here, with Sam.

Sam moaned at the taste of fruity champagne mingled with the flavor that was Dean alone as their tongues slid and tangled together. He ran his hands over Dean's back caressing him lovingly and inching closer, slowly crawling into his lover's lap. His actions would have been a good thing, hell it would have been a great thing, except he hadn't realized Dean was sitting with his back against loose pillows on the end of the couch but not against the armrest. The added weight of Sam's body up against Dean and his reaction to Sam's groin brushing up against him, sent Dean off balance and tumbling end ass over elbow off the couch. 

Sam let out a shout of surprise and alarm, only just saving himself from tumbling to the floor with Dean. Laughter bubbled out of him as he looked off the edge down at Dean. He offered his love a hand as he continued to laugh despite his attempt to tamp down on his laughter. "Aw, babe," he snickered, "Are you alright?" 

"Angel, my ass," Dean muttered, taking Sam's hand. Instead of letting Sam pull him up, he tugged Sam down onto the floor and rolled over, half on top of him. "I'm very alright," he said, brushing his mouth across Sam's, waiting to see his tongue come out to play, and curling his own around Sam's before leaning in and kissing him properly. By the time Dean raised his head, he was breathless. "Let's take this party to the bedroom," he suggested, wickedly rubbing his thigh against Sam's groin. 

Sam's lips curled into an impish smile, "Yeah, alright," he agreed with a nod. He chuckled softly and grabbed the front of Dean's tee, pulling him in closer, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You can play the part of the angel tonight," he said with a pointed glance down his body at his groin as he released Dean's shirt and lowered his hand, slipping it down under the elastic waist of his sweat pants and briefs, hand wrapping around his own cock. 

At first, Dean gave him a questioning look, then he grinned. "You gonna give me a show, Sammy? Can't promise I'll be an angel, but I _can_ promise you'll have my full attention," he said, curling his fingers around the waistband of Sam's sweat pants and slowly tugging it down. 

Sam laughed and rolled out of Dean's grasp, "Hey, no fair I never got to do that," he complained, grabbing one side of his sweats, though the other side was falling down even as he laughed and reached for Dean to pull him in closer. "Kiss me," he commanded with a soft chuckle. "Even if you do make a terrible angel..." 

"Just want to see what you've got in there..." Dean muttered, "and I make a great angel... really." As soon as his lips touched Sam's, he dropped all pretense of being an angel and turned up the heat between them. 

Sam slowly pulled his head back, breaking the kiss, his breaths panting out softly from between his parted lips as his eyes searched Dean's. "In all those times that I watched you...all those times I took care of you... longed for you... I never dared to dream..." his lips quirked upward slightly at one corner. "It's kinda funny, isn't it? How God can turn a curse into the best thing that ever happened to a demon and an angel?" 

"Uh huh, yeah. Great Christmas present." Dean smiled down at Sam, then gave him a heated look and waited patiently. When Sam didn't respond, he feathered kisses across his lips. "Sam? The show you promised me?" Laughing softly, he raised his head and gave one more tug on Sam's clothes that left him fully exposed. "You're right. I make a terrible angel."

Sam's laughter joined Dean's and he shook his head and rolled his eyes at his not so angelic lover. He rolled onto his side and hopped to his feet, tugging his sweats up by the seat so that his ass wasn't bare as he took off down the hall toward the bedroom. 

Samuel, an angel of the Lord, had been in many battles and had been chased by many demons, but none quite like the one who now ran down the hall after him. However, now wasn't the time to ponder the miracle of an angel falling for a demon, nor of a demon regaining humanity by virtue of faith and the sacrifice of an angel's grace. Now was the time to live and to love, to celebrate their humanity. 

THE END


End file.
